SMOKY   ROSES 


LYMAN  BRYSON 


SMOKY  ROSES 


BY 

LYMAN  BRYSON 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

Gbe  "Knickerbocker  press 

1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 

BY 
LYMAN    BRYSON 


ttbe  ftntcfcerbocker  prew,  flew  l.'orfc 


So 

MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER 


35797x 


For  permission  to  reprint  some  of  the  following  poems 
thanks  are  due  to  the  publishers  of  The  Forum,  The 
Independent,  The  Poetry  Journal,  The  Anthology  of  Maga 
zine  Verse,  1914,  The  Colonnade,  The  Survey,  The  Boston 
Transcript,  The  Midland,  The  New  Republic,  and  Poetry. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SMOKY  ROSES i 

CONDEMNED 2 

THE  GARMENT 4 

WHISPERS            .......  5 

OLD  MAN  LAKS 7 

GRATITUDE .10 

THE  STREET  CLEANER n 

MY  TOWN           .......  12 

SUMMER  IN  THE  TENEMENTS        .         .         .         .13 

THE  FLOOD 15 

THE  PROPHET 17 

INVOCATION 18 

FOR  ME  THE  TEARS 19 

SOME  EVENING    .......  20 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  PAIN 21 

DEDICATION 22 

PHANTOMS 23 

LOST 23 

TRIUMPH 25 

THE  BUILDERS 26 

vii 


viii  Contents 


PAGE 


FINGER  TIPS 27 

THE  STIRRING 28 

MOONWRAITH 30 

THE  GUEST 31 

VENGEANCE 32 

THE  CHILD  IN  SUMMER  33 

SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 34 

A  NAMELESS  BIRD      ......  35 

WET  JUNE  DAYS         ......  36 

SONG 37 

To  A  CERTAIN  PAIR  LADY  .         .         .         .         .38 

GOLDENROD         .         .         .         .         .         .  39 

MOTHER  OF  A  SON 40 

MORNING 41 

BALLAD       ........  42 

WINTER      . 44 

MRS.  COBURN  IN  THE  "ELEKTRA"       ...  45 

RULERS 46 

HYMN  TO  BAAL  (1914) 47 

CATALPAS .49 

THE  POPPY 50 

A  PORTRAIT 51 

THE  LOVE-WROUGHT  WORD         ....  52 

EVERY  PILGRIM 53 

THE  EXILE 55 


Contents  ix 

PAGE 

ANDREA'S  MORNING 58 

MIST 62 

THE  PATRIARCH 67 

THE  CARDINAL  DANCES 74 

THE  WRECKER 90 


Smoky   Roses 


SMOKY  ROSES 

THE  "mogul"  rides  the  east  wind, 
Cleaving  the  dust  and  heat, 
Speeding  from  dawn  to  twilight 
With  thunder  and  lightning  feet. 

The  smoky  roses  wither 
Breathing  the  dust  and  sand 
Where  the  old  man  guards  a  crossing 
With  a  red  flag  in  his  hand. 

He  coaxes  from  the  waste  heaps 
A  meagre  garden  space, 
And  brushes  the  tearing  cinders 
From  the  rose's  tender  face. 

His  smoky  roses  wither 
Under  the  cinder  and  ash, 
And  the  red  rose  dims  to  greyness 
In  the  joy  of  her  first  red  flash. 

The  long  days  are  contentless, 
The  yards  are  a  small,  tight  world; 
He  watches  trains  for  Frisco 
That  over  the  plains  are  hurled. 

i 


CONDEMNED 

FROM  dawning  the  joy  of  your  spirit 

Was  touched  with  the  dread 
Of  the  wan  hidden  hand  stretching  near  it, 

The  hand  of  the  dead— 
From  those  who  have  struggled  before  you 

And  sinned  for  their  bread. 

Behind  the  high  piles  of  fine  raiment 

In  the  luxury  mart, 
You  dream  of  your  own  limbs'  adornment, 

And  guiltily  smart 
With  the  first  growth  of  infamy's  planting 

Taking  root  in  your  heart. 

When  your  sweet  body,  spent  and  pain-broken, 

Is  weary  past  rest, 
And  the  words  of  your  soul,  yet  unspoken, 

Shall  die  unexpressed, 
And  the  heart  that  God  gave  you  for  loving 

Is  iron  in  your  breast, 

Then  they  that  have  kissed  you  shall  curse  you, 

And  invoke  from  their  lair 
Their  own  sheltered  women,  who  loathe  you, 

Who  see  snakes  in  your  hair, 
Who  shall  drive  you  to  hide  with  Medusas 

And  imprison  you  there. 

2 


Condemned 

Your  brothers,  who  boast  of  their  city, 

For  you  have  no  name. 
Too  busy  with  progress  for  pity, 

Too  careful  for  blame, 
They  weave  your  red  shroud  out  of  silence: 

Their  cost — and  their  shame. 


THE  GARMENT 

'Tis  I  who  ask  forgiveness,  I,  who  bought 
The  garment  when  I  did  not  know 

That  its  maker  hungered  as  he  wrought 

And  patterned  it  with  sweat  marks  in  a  row 
And  fought 

The  little  mists  of  red,  that  come  and  go. 

Little  mists  of  red  in  blistered  eyes, 

That  never  close  for  rest  or  sleep, 
Save  when  despair  with  heavy  menace  lies 
And  palsies  of  exhaustion  onward  creep, 

And  dies 
The  haggard  will  that  this  last  watch  would  keep. 

No  bitter  word  of  mine,  no  burning  deed 
Had  ever  helped  him  face  this  woe. 

I  had  been  all  oblivious  of  his  need, 

I  had  not  seen  his  weary  hands  move  slow, 
And  bleed 

With  needle  stabs  as  they  sagged  to  and  fro. 

And  still  I  wore  as  decent  Sunday  best 

My  brother's  handiwork  of  pain; 
While  his  wan  soul  a  stranger  was  to  rest, 
And  his  heart's  blood  a  futile  sop  for  gain. 

Confessed — 
My  late  repentance  shall  not  be  in  vain. 


WHISPERS 

SOFT  black  against  the  sky,  whose  evening  green 

Is  sharp  and  pale  with  autumn  chill,  the  towers 

Go  swinging  up  with  many  yellow  eyes. 

One  star  shows  at  the  skyline,  facet-keen, 

And  in  the  close  of  their  enslaved  hours 

The  crowds  creep  on  the  pavements,  insect-wise. 

Out  over  moving  workers,  whispers  go 

Like  the  insistent,  quiet,  secret,  tone 

Of  thought  to  thought,  across  wide  silence  heard. 

Why  is  there  never  one,  of  those  who  know, 

To  catch  the  heavy  meaning  of  that  moan 

And  feel  the  godhead  in  his  spirit  stirred? 

Have  we  not  asked  you  the  secret, 
You,  who  are  high  and  serene? 
Venturing  toward  your  far  wisdom, 
Falling  in  chasms  between? 

Have  we  not  sent  up  our  prayers, 
Inarticulate — begging  for  speech  ? 
What  have  you  done  to  bring  beauty, 
Or  love  of  it,  nearer  our  reach? 

Out  of  the  whirl  we  are  clamorous, 
What  have  we  heard  that  was  sweet? 
What  fire  is  brought  to  our  spirit? 
What  torch  is  set  for  our  feet? 
5 


6  Whispers 

Guideless  and  hopeless  we  follow — 
Why  should  you  wince  from  our  fall? 
You  have  not  beckoned  above  us; 
Can  it  be — Heaven  is  small? 

These  faces  move  like  bubbles  on  a  tide, 
Breaking  upon  eager  trolley  cars, 
And  vanishing  like  bubbles  on  a  beach. 
But  may  there  not  in  these  film  bubbles  ride 
Strange  ancient  greatness  in  dim  avatars, 
Struggling  in  such  whispers  for  its  speech? 


OLD  MAN  LAKS 

THEY  tell  me  Old  Man  Laks  is  dead ! 
Old  man  Laks — burned  in  his  bed; 
Dropped  a  lighted  cigarette; 
Now  his  neighbours  can't  forget 
How,  after  midnight  beer  discussion, 
They  had  drunk  and  rolled  and  chattered, 
How  their  stupid  doze  was  shattered 
By  his  screaming  oaths  in  Russian. 
I'd  been  in  his  unkempt  store, 
Went  to  try  his  cigarette. 
When  I  slammed  the  loose-hung  door 
I  heard  an  old  voice  thinly  fret, 
"Well,  what  would  you?"— from  the  dark. 
He  told  me  where  his  wares  were  kept 
But  to  serve  me  did  not  deign, 
So  I  explored  his  musty  ark. 
When  no  buyers  came  he  slept 
Or  lay  silent,  with  his  pain. 
Through  the  curtained  door  was  seen 
His  red  table  and  his  lamp. 
It  smelled  of  fish  and  kerosene 
And  the  outer  room  was  damp, 
But  when  buyers  were  so  few 
There  was  scarce  enough  to  eat ; 
He  could  not  buy  comfort,  too. 
7 


8  Old  Man  Laks 

And  he  seldom  left  his  cot, 

And  was  never  on  the  street, 

Lay  there  silent  and  forgot 

With  a  rug  across  his  feet. 

But  I  never  saw  him  read 

Though  he  seemed  to  know  by  heart 

All  the  heavy  Hebrew  tomes 

That  were  heaped  in  those  two  rooms; 

And  he  knew  each  subtle  part 

Of  his  strict  and  ancient  creed. 

He  had  cigarettes  for  sale — 

Were  they  smuggled? — That's  a  pale, 

Weak  transgression,  if  you  please. 

Every  stranger  can't  be  taught 

That  to  break  a  law  in  Kiev 

May  be  virtue,  but  deceive 

On  this  side  the  swarming  seas 

And  it's  deadly  sin — if  caught. 

So  his  life  was  sordid,  yet 

He  deserved  a  nobler  death 

Than  to  choke  in  flaming  breath 

From  a  burning  cigarette. 

Once  I  looked  at  his  white  hair 

Out  upon  his  dingy  bed, 

And  I  saw  the  shadow  there 

Of  some  blessing  on  his  head. 

There  was  something,  some  denial, 

Some  great  thought  he  locked  within, 

Or  some  undiscovered  passion, 

Ghost  of  some  long-conquered  sin, 


Old  Man  Laks 

That  had  given  him  his  trial 

In  no  overt,  common  fashion 

But  in  secret.     Or  some  power 

Lay  forever  unaroused 

And  the  breast  where  it  was  housed 

Never  throbbed  in  one  great  hour. 

That  was  all.     But  it  was  there 

In  that  face  and  outflung  hair. 

But  he  lived  and  burned.     God  mocks 

Greatness,  in  such  men  as  Laks. 

My  soul  with  searching  has  grown  lean 

But  this  moment  has  been  mine 

To  see  the  smudge  of  fire  divine 

In  life  so  pitifully  mean. 


GRATITUDE 

MIST  has  hung  for  chilling  hours; 
Mud  is  cold  upon  the  street ; 
And  the  daylight  slinks  away 
In  defeat. 

By  the  dripping,  bricky  walls 
An  old  woman  weakly  drags, 
With  no  comfort  but  her  scant 
Clammy  rags. 

Greeted  by  a  bleary  light 
Through,  a  green  door,  left  ajar, 
In  she  totters,  half  afraid, 
To  the  bar. 

When  they  fill  her  flask  for  pence, 
Back  she  goes  to  her  damp  hole, 
Where  the  gin  will  sink  and  burn 
To  her  soul. 

But  when  one  is  very  old, 
And  rag  blankets  get  so  thin, 
There  is  heartfelt  thanks  for  drink- 
Hot  as  gin ! 


10 


THE  STREET  CLEANER 

THERE  you  go  with  your  broad  shovel 
Heaping  them  in  gutter-sheaves, 
Though  a  heart  that  ached  for  beauty 
Thanked  his  God  for  scattered  leaves. 

Let  them  follow  whispering  journeys, 
Droop  and  rest  in  tan  decay, 
Swirl  and  rustle  on  the  pavement, 
Hide  the  road  of  asphalt  grey. 

Let  them  huddle  through  the  winter, 
Patient  under  snow  and  rain, 
Till  their  chemistry  of  wood-mould 
Turns  the  road  to  earth  again. 

Then  some  poet  of  the  grass  stems, 
Strong  and  brave  through  winter  night, 
May  wake  and  thrust  a  green  blade  upward 
Through  the  pavement  into  light. 


ii 


MY  TOWN 

MY  town  is  freckled  green  and  gold 
In  the  pleasant  summer-shine, 
When  the  day  is  jewel-bright 
Over  elm  and  ivy  vine 

But  the  streets  are  grey  and  cold, 
When  the  snow  blows,  swift  and  fine- 
How  the  shanties,  gaunt  and  old, 
Cower  along  the  river  line ! 


12 


SUMMER  IN  THE  TENEMENTS 

They  have  cried  war  on  sunlight.     Their  fair 

fields 

Are  builded  over  with  dark  alley  sheds. 
Once  fertile  earth  now  nothing  living  yields, 
And  sweats  beneath  the  tenement's  hot  weight. 
Grey  ash-heaps  have  usurped  the  violet  beds. 
These  people  hold  the  sun  from  earth.  Their  fate 
For  this  unkindness  is  that  every  breath 
Is  a  weariness  and  burning  taste  of  death. 

For  these  were  green  fields  once.     These  trodden 

stones, 

These  cluttered  hives  are  over  ancient  graves 
Of  apple  trees  and  roses.     Dully  drones 
Life  now  among  these  smothered  little  rooms. 
They  have  cried  war  on  sunlight;  nothing  saves 
Them  from  his   searing  wrath.     His  hot  gaze 

dooms 

Their  children  to  the  torture  of  this  heat. 
They  balked  the  sunlight  and  they  know  defeat. 

The  sunlight  loved  the  fields  but  cannot  love 
These  sullen  walls  and  streets.     He  blazes  down 
In  deathful  protest.     From  a  sweep  above 
He  strikes  some  men  to  death  and  some  go  mad, 
13 


14     Summer  in  the  Tenements 

Suffering  for  the  sin  of  their  grim  town, 
Which  robs  the  sun  of  sweet  fields  he  once  had. 
But  men  who  built  these  sheds  to  insult  the  eye 
Of  the  sun,  are  not  the  men  who  pay — and  die. 


THE  FLOOD 

THE  cold  black  water  lapping  at  her  face, 

That  I  remember.     There  were  others  too, 

Many  others,  but  most  died  in  fear, 

And  muddy  waters  choked  them  in  their  prayers, 

Curseful,  unholy  prayers  for  their  mean  lives. 

Some  died  in  fury,  some  in  pain,  none  prayed 

As  she  did,  for  another,  as  she  felt 

The  cold  black  water  lapping  at  her  face. 

My  friends  were  out  of  danger.     At  the  foot 

Of  the  little  hill  we  stood  on  water  swirled 

Full  of  foul  broken  things.     We  searched  and 

searched 

To  find  some  floating  help  to  send  to  those 
Who  cried  across  to  us.     We  swam  for  two 
And   pulled   them,    sodden,    up    to   where   we 

breathed. 

We  could  have  done  no  more,  but  if  my  eyes 
Had  wandered  sooner  over  that  black  tide 
And  seen  her  white  face  as  she  held  on  high 
Her   baby,    I'd   have   jumped,    chance    or   no 

chance. 

When  I  first  got  the  shock  of  grief  that  was 
Her  distant  face,  I  saw  her  clinging  close 
To  a  swaying  wall  and  holding  by  one  hand, 
15 


1 6  The  Flood 

As  the  water,  breast-high,  rocked  her  on  her 

perch, 

To  a  little  raft,  some  drawer  or  table  top, 
Enough  to  float  her  baby.     As  her  lips 
Moved  in  the  very  anguish  of  her  prayer 
The  water  reached  her  throat.     She  set  the 

raft, 

Frail  tipping  bit  of  wreckage,  on  its  way. 
Without  a  farewell  kiss,  or  touch,  she  gave 
Her  baby  to  the  flood  and  as  she  watched 
The  raft  careened,  as  if  afraid  to  bear 
Its  dear  freight  over  such  a  deadly  road. 
The  cold  black  water  lapping  at  her  face — 
It  was  no  more  than  half  a  moment's  time 
She  clung  there,  swaying,  but  I  saw  the  hope 
That  filled  the  moment,  saw  how  unafraid 
She  tasted  death,   and  how  she  thought  her 

prayers 
For  the  baby's  life  were  answered. 

Then  she  sank, 

Not  as  the  others  died,  not  in  despair, 
Nor  fear,  nor  fury,  but  with  sweet  content 
Austere  and  holy  on  her  face.     The  flood, 
Black    hideous    moving    death,    rose    up    and 

crushed 

The  baby's  raft  before  the  moving  light, 
Where  her  white  happy  face  had  been,  was  gone. 


THE  PROPHET 

JEREMIAH,  will  you  come? 

Will  you  gather  up  the  multitudes  and  wake 

them  with  a  drum? 
Will  you  dare  anoint  the  chosen  ones  from  all 

the  cattle-kind? 
And  threaten  with  the  fire  of  God  the  foolish 

and  the  blind? 

Jeremiah,  Jeremiah,  we  have  waited  for  you 

long 
To  see  the  flaming  fury  of  your  hate  against  the 

wrong, 
For  we  dally  in  the  Temple  and  we  flee  the  eye  of 

Truth, 
And  we  waste  along  the  Wilderness  the  glory  of 

our  youth. 

Jeremiah,   Jeremiah,   here  the  lying  prophets 

speak, 
Here  they  flatter  in  their  feebleness  the  gilded 

and  the  sleek; 
But  languid  pipings  die  in  shame  when  trumpet 

cries  are  heard. 
Are  you  coming?    Are  you  coming?    0  Prophet 

of  the  Word? 


INVOCATION 

GIVE  me  no  guerdon  until  I  have  won  it 

In  love  and  labour  and  pain. 

Grant  me  no  peace  till  my  spirit  has  sung  itself 

Out  into  freedom  again. 

In  days  that  are  full  of  this  slothful  distemper, 
Nights  that  are  weary  of  rest, 
Months  sliding  by  in  this  vacant  monotony, 
I  am  forgetting  my  quest. 

The  candle  is  guttered  before  my  fond  altar; 
I  should  have  leaped  to  the  flame 
And  burned  up  my  life  as  a  torch  to  the  angel, 
Whose  face  turns  away  from  this  shame. 

Give  me  no  comfort  in  bitter  repentance 
For  days  that  are  empty  of  dream ; 
Give  me  no  comfort  until  my  dim  vision 
Has  wakened  again  to  the  gleam. 


18 


FOR  ME  THE  TEARS 

IF  God  will  not  decree  that  you  and  I 
Shall  go,  thus  hand  in  hand,  unto  the  end, 
If  there  must  come  a  time  when  one  alone 
Must,  shuddering,  walk  to  the  darkest  brink, 
May  that  be  peace  for  you — for  me  the  tears. 

If  it  be  so,  and  one  of  us  must  turn 

Back  into  common  daylight  from  the  grave, 

Go  on  with  living  when  there  is  no  life, 

Forlorn  of  joy  in  spring,  and  sun,  and  night, 

Because  of  springs  remembered  and  nights  gone, 

Uplifting  weary  eyes  with  decent  calm 

And  hearing  neighbours  say  how  well  'tis  borne, 

That  is  the  bitter  portion — death  is  peace. 

If  you  who  go  ahead  shall  find  a  place 
All  filled  with  calmness,  passionless,  and  sweet, 
And  making  it  more  human  with  yourself, 
Wait  there  the  glad  day  of  my  second  death, 
All  purged  of  my  unworthiness  by  grief, 
I'll  come  to  you  in  that  eternal  place. 
I  pray  that  I  may  drink  the  deeper  cup; 
Death  may  be  peace  for  you — for  me  the  tears. 


SOME  EVENING 

SOME  April  evening,  when  the  sky 
With  a  blue  and  silver  fringe 
Lies  upon  the  earth  so  nigh 
That  far  hills  take  on  its  tinge, 
Under  elm  trees,  black  and  tall, 
You  will  stand  in  this  same  place 
And  a  few  cool  drops  may  fall 
Soft,  upon  your  upturned  face. 

If  you  call  them  only  rain, 
Thinking  I  am  gone  past  tears, 
Then  their  falling  shall  be  vain, 
And  I'll  be  gone  with  my  dead  years. 
For  they  shall  be  tokens  sent, 
By  a  ghostly,  fond  device, 
From  one  who  finds  his  heaven  spent 
And  weeps  alone  in  Paradise. 


20 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  PAIN 

FOR  grave  I  choose  a  green  and  sunny  slope 
Where  apple  trees,  full  fruited,  bloom  the  hill. 
Then  may  the  strength  that  holds  in  my  still 

heart 

Grow  healthily  into  the  sturdy  trees, 
And  may  the  apples  be  as  sweet  and  kind 
As  is  my  grateful  farewell  to  my  life. 
If  ever  friendly  plough  shall  turn  my  mould 
Into  the  open  sunlight,  may  the  wind 
Scatter  the  dust  across  the  window-sill 
Of  some  contented  cottage,  where  a  child 
May  trace  the  foolish  pattern  of  a  man 
In  my  forgotten,  ancient  dust— and  smile. 


DEDICATION 

BECAUSE  I  remember  that  day  in  March, 

We  stood  alone  in  our  secret  place, 

The  winds  that  wrestled  in  elm  and  larch 

Were  helping  the  sun's  keen  ray  efface 

The  lingering  snow,  the  last  spent  trace 

Of  winter's  beauty ;  because  your  face 

With  hair  blown  back  and  eyes  sprung  free 

Illumined  the  world  and  compassed  me 

With  the  glory  that  none  but  you  could  see; 

Because  I  have  found  for  my  soul's  emprise, 

Holding  on  vision  in  dawn  and  night, 

No  other  sanction  than  faith  which  lies 

Like  an  unfed  flame  in  your  face,  the  light 

On  my  face  lifted  up  to  your  height, 

Making  me  worthier  in  your  sight; 

Though  my  heart  learn  iron — as  the  world  is 

shod — 

I  know  that  my  one  faith  cannot  nod. 
I  give  to  you  what  I  have  from  God. 


22 


PHANTOMS 

LOST 

THE  mist  came  up  and  choked  the  street; 

I  could  not  flee  through  there, 
For  an  iron  lamp  post  grinned  at  me 

And  waved  its  yellow  glare. 
A  woman  sobbed  and  almost  saw 

When  I  hurried  through  her  hair. 

I  could  not  go  the  way  I  came — 

That  door  was  bolted  fast; 
And  those  who  threw  me  out  from  home 

Set  heel  against  the  past, 
Not  knowing  I  had  heard  them  count 

My  breathing  till  the  last. 

How  could  a  phantom  face  the  dawn? 

My  grey  limbs  shrank  in  fright. 
I  could  not  find  the  way,  there  was 

So  little  left  of  night. 
Terror  strangled  me,  I  smelled 

The  coming  of  the  light. 

There  was  no  time !    There  was  no  time ! 
Why  was  I  born  so  late? 
23 


24  Phantoms 

I  looked  in  through  a  door  and  saw 

A  banquet  set  in  state; 
A  man  with  thick  and  greasy  smile 

Worshipped  at  each  plate. 

I  drew  the  breeze  in  through  my  heart 
And  laughed — no  flesh  was  there ! 

My  hands  were  clasped  before  my  face 
But  each  of  them  held  air. 

Terror  stopped  my  eerie  laugh — 
I  was  not  anywhere. 

I  knew  no  way,  I  knew  no  way, 
Let  loose  too  near  the  morn, 

There  was  no  time  to  find  the  way; 
I  wound  about  forlorn, 

Wondering  at  my  weariness, 
For  I  was  yet  new-born. 

I  saw  the  light  cut  through  the  mist, 
The  dawn,  blood-thirsty,  broke. 

Too  late — I'd  lost  the  way  for  those 
Whose  souls  are  made  of  smoke, 

And  I  was  mist  and  in  my  throat 
The  misty  air  did  choke. 

I  saw  my  own  thin  hands  dissolve 
And  turned  me  to  the  wall; 

The  sneering  sun  seared  out  my  face, 
There  was  nought  left  to  fall. 

Only  this  wailing  memory 
Floats — and  remembers  all. 


Phantoms  25 

TRIUMPH 

At  my  first  touch  his  head  fell  back, 

I  saw  his  eyeballs  shine. 
I  froze  the  warm  blood  at  his  heart, 

The  marrow  in  his  spine, 
And  put  him  in  the  fear  of  death, 

To  tell  him  he  was  mine. 

I  came  upon  him  in  the  night 

And  knew  him  for  my  own. 
I  saw  the  everlasting  soul, 

That  through  his  body  shone; 
And  knew  that  when  all  else  was  mist 

He'd  cling  to  me  alone. 

Mine  for  aeons  yet  unborn. 

The  love  he  knows  on  earth 
Shall  seem  a  joyless,  puny,  thing 

When  I,  with  solemn  mirth, 
Welcome  him  among  the  stars, 

When  his  dead  self  has  birth. 

Then  he  will  feel  no  bitter  trace 

Of  wife-things  left  behind, 
Nor  see  the  shadow  of  a  face, 

When  we  ride  on  the  wind. 
And  he  will  give  me  fleshless  love, 

But  I  will  not  be  kind. 


26  Phantoms 

THE  BUILDERS 

Close  to  the  earth  he  is  building  his  towers, 
Towers  of  vapours  that  shift  and  surge, 
Vapours  of  damp,  poor  ghosts  of  showers, 
Materials  meet  for  the  intricate  powers 
Of  one  who  is  master,  not  mere  demiurge. 

Out  of  the  trimmings  that  fall  from  his  planing, 
Trimmings  of  vapour  that  fall  in  the  street, 
I  have  been  fashioning  eagerly,  feigning 
That   my   vapours   weren't   what   the  Builder, 

disdaining, 
Had  dropped  from  his  work  and  spurned  out 

withjhis  feet. 

I  have  been  fashioning  halos  for  lanterns, 
And  veils  for  the  gas-lamps.     I  almost  believe 
There  are  hearts  in  the  flickering  women  my 

hand  turns 

Out  of  the  mist ;  but  the  step  of  a  man  turns 
Them   chilly   with   fear — they   congeal   on   his 

sleeve. 

But  the  Builder — he  sees  me  at  work  with  the 

vapours 

And  gathers  the  rubbish  before  I  have  done. 
He  stirs  up  the  morning  and  snuffs  the  star 

tapers,  - 

Awaking  the  world  to  go  on  with  its  capers, 
And  fills  up  my  streets  with  the  wind  and  the 

sun. 


FINGER  TIPS 

OUT  on  the  rim  of  the  mist  of  my  soul 

Linger  thy  finger  tips; 
And  I,  in  the  shadows  that  whirl  and  roll, 
Am  trying  to  reach  to  the  rim  of  my  soul 

And  bless  them  with  my  lips. 

Words  cannot  go  to  them,  but  the  unspoken, 

Echoless,  vague,  and  murmurously  sweet, 
Wait  in  a  silence  forever  unbroken, 
Wait,  and  wistfully  long  to  be  spoken, 
Thy  name  to  repeat. 

Friend  out  there  on  that  misty  sea, 

Lost  where  my  vision  dips, 
Seal  one  touch  to  the  heart  of  me ; 
Reach,  ah,  reach,  through  the  misty  sea, 

Just  with  thy  finger  tips. 


THE  STIRRING 

SEE  yonder  little,  fleecy,  summer's  cloud 
That  lazily  blows  in  the  passing  breeze 
Across  horizons  of  a  hundred  hills 
In  aimless  travel  on  the  vapour  seas, 
The  sport  of  every  breath  of  wind  that  blows, 
As  if  it  could  but  sail  and  cared  not  where; 
Think  you  that  in  some  mystic  way  it  knows 
That  it  must  wander  in  the  lower  air? 
Think  you  that  ever,  nebulous  and  faint, 
In  that  dim  shadow  soul  of  skyey  things, 
It  does  not  long  with  longing  half  conceived, 
To  mount  into  the  height  with  billowy  wings, 
Into  the  blue — blue — azure  deep  as  life — 
Far,  far  immensities  of  open  sky? 
Would  it  not  soar  in  that  ethereal 
That  never-ending  space,  and  never  die, 
If  but  the  strength  of  an  unknown  desire 
Could  work  in  deeds  as  does  the  grosser  fire; 
Think  you  it  may  thus,  impotent,  aspire? 

When  life  throbs  slow,  and  slower  still,  and  faint, 
And  like  a  watchful  sentinel  Death  waits 
To  strike  the  spirit  groping  in  the  dark, 
Think  you  the  captive  Essence  never  hates 
The  struggle  to  remain  ill-housed  and  bound, 
28 


The  Stirring  29 

When  far  above,  and  deep  below,  and  vast, 
A  Chaos,  limitless  and  ever  new, 
Stretches  ahead  when  once  the  door  is  passed? 
Think  you  that  e'er  the  warm  full  life  returns, 
Bringing  back  the  mortal  cloak  that  clings, 
And  life's  too  fair  illusions  place  regain 
And  lull  the  dormant  call  of  final  things, 
Think  you  that  in  the  moment's  glimpse  beyond, 
The  soul  unfettered  does  not  stir  from  sleep 
And  wake  to  longing  for  the  far,  far,  flight 
When  loosed  from  earthy  bonds  across  the  deep, 
From  sphere  to  sphere  it  wings  a  tireless  way  ? 
Does  it  not  long  to  go  before  it  may, 
And  dread  the  sordid  dawning  of  a  day? 


MOONWRAITH 

MOONWRAITH  lies  along  the  floor; 
Swooning  shadows  in  the  street 
Tremble  as  they  pass  the  door, 
For  the  white  print  of  her  feet, 
On  the  steps  and  ancient  floor, 
Left  Perfume  sweet. 

And  the  very  air  she  breathes, 
Through  the  quiet  of  the  room, 
In  its  silent  moving  wreathes 
Odorous  sweetness  in  the  gloom, 
As  in  springtime  when  she  breathes 
Orchard  bloom. 

Moonwraith  lies  so  still  and  pale 
That  I  hold  my  lips  in  pain, 
Lest  the  silver  vision  fail, 
And  my  eyes  with  sorrow  vain 
Gaze  on  stones  where,  lily-pale, 
She  hath  lain. 


THE  GUEST 

NIGHT  came,  and  wind 
And  after  that  the  rain, 
Falling  like  the  memory 
Of  long-worn  pain. 

Open  was  the  door, 
And  open  wide  my  heart, 
Eager  for  the  guest  from  whom 
I  shall  not  part. 

All  the  sound  I  heard 
In  all  the  dripping  pain, 
Was  never  eager  footsteps 
But  sad,  cool  rain. 


VENGEANCE 

I  SENT  my  enemy  to  Hell 
And,  for  the  evil  he  had  done 
To  me  and  everyone 
Who  came  within  his  cruel  clutch, 
They  made  him  suffer  overmuch. 

Then,  after  he  had  burned  a  while, 

I  went  to  visit  Hell  again, 

To  smile  at  him  in  pain. 

He  made  me  see  his  face  all  singed. 

I'll  not  forget — now  he's  revenged. 


THE  CHILD  IN  SUMMER 

I  WONDER  why  the  wind  runs  on  the  hedge 
In  just  the  way  I'd  have  it  run, 
And  why  it  moves  among  the  friendly  trees 
As  if  it  had  no  one  but  me  to  please. 
Everything  I  see  the  breezes  do 
Seems  always  just  the  way  I  want  it  done. 

Whenever  all  the  flowers  droop  and  die 

And  I  make  blossoms  of  my  own, 

I'll  make  them  just  like  these  a-growing  now; 

I  love  them  so,  I  will  remember  how. 

And  if  there's  no  one  else  to  call  them  sweet 
They'll  still  keep  growing  sweet  for  me  alone. 


33 


SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 

How  shall  I  know  what  lies  beyond 
Where  the  long  road  turns  to  blue 
Save  that  I  travel  that  way  myself 
And  follow  the  long  road  through? 

For  I  was  born  on  the  broad  highway, 
And  the  moving  wind  is  kin. 
What  is  a  house  but  a  prison  wall 
To  keep  my  heart  shut  in? 

And  I  have  a  house  at  the  end  of  the  road, 
Where  my  secret  way  doth  lie, 
And  there  I  shall  go  when  I  quit  my  song 
And  cover  my  face  to  die. 

But  how  shall  I  know  why  over  there 
The  long  road  meets  the  sky 
Save  that  I  travel  that  way  myself 
And  ask  the  last  hill  why? 


34 


A  NAMELESS  BIRD 

I  HAVE  no  name  to  call  one  loveliest  bird, 
Which  at  my  sunlit  morning  window  sings 
His  first  fresh  carolling,  though  I  have  heard 
Each  song  with  grateful  rapture  as  it  brings 
Day  and  dew  and  breezes  to  my  eyes, 
And  bids  me  go  forth  to  accept  the  earth 
When  Summer  offers  it  for  my  surprise. 
He  celebrates  our  wonder  in  sweet  mirth 
While  we  look  out  together  on  the  green. 
For  this  I  call  him  Brother,  and  I  praise 
Him,  nameless,  for  the  exquisite  and  keen 
Bright  beauty  of  his  greeting  to  my  days. 
If  he  had  any  name  he'd  be  but  one 
Of  many  like  him,  and  not  mine  alone. 


35 


WET  JUNE  DAYS 

WHAT  strange  god's  weeping  makes  our  June 

so  sad  ? 

Whose  tears  must  overflow  so  fast, 
Like  misty  traces  of  all  Aprils  past, 
Long  since  forgotten?     Once  we  had 
A  radiant  brother  Sun,  who  made  us  glad 
With  cheerly  given  greeting.     Hills 
Which  now  the  grey-green  vapour  hides  and 

chills 

Danced  in  the  flaming  sunbeams,  mad 
With  beauty,  as  of  old  danced  the  Maenad. 

But  now  the  skies  are  all  dissolved  in  rain. 

The  river  has  grown  hostile ;  black, 

It  hurries  like  a  serpent,  and  its  track 

Will  mark  its  banks  with  serpent  stain. 

One  lonesome  bird,  wet-feathered,  tries  with  pain 

Just  to  remember  how  he  thrilled 

His  friends,  the  leaves,  before  spring-song  was 

killed, 

Drowned  all  in  fog.     He  tries  in  vain, 
And  young  trees  shake  with  agues  in  the  lane. 


SONG 

MAIDEN,  thou  and  this  bright  day 

Would  make  me  wish  that  I 

Might  here  my  wayward  hours  spend 

And  rest  me,  till  I  die, 

For  here  I've  found  my  journey's  end, 

Where  beauty  sweet  doth  lie. 

Oh,  give  me  not  an  idle  smile 

That  vanishes  with  day, 

And  kiss  me  not,  or  I  shall  weep 

When  kisses  pass  away, 

But  bless  me  with  one  kindling  glance 

And  at  thy  feet  I'll  stay. 


37 


t/ 


TO  A  CERTAIN  FAIR  LADY 

YOUR  heart  is  like  a  poplar  tree, 
Full  of  sunlit  greenery, 
A  thin  lace  pattern  on  the  sky 
That  trembles  when  the  winds  go  by. 

And  every  zephyr,  every  day, 
That  comes  adventuring  its  way, 
Feels  it  as  tremulously  waken 
As  if  it  never  had  been  shaken. 


GOLDEN  ROD 

"HAS  the  wide  green  plain  been  fruitful?" 

Ask  the  gods  of  wind  and  rain. 
"Has  the  bounty  of  maize  been  all  fulfilled? 
"Is  labour  repaid  for  them  that  piled?" 
"We  bear  witness!"  answers  the  grain. 

"The  bursting  sod  has  yielded, 

11  And  wherever  the  green  stalks  nod, 
"With  dim  new  glory  of  dusty  gold, 
"The  plain  is  fringed  with  a  glow — Behold! 
"The  blessing  of  Golden  Rod!" 


MOTHER  OF  A  SON 

O  WOMEN  who  mourn  in  the  cities  above  me, 

On  the  farms,  in  the  towns,  by  the  lakes, 

Wherever  the  folly  of  man  sows  wind 

And  the  heart  breaks, 

This  is  my  son! 

This  is  my  sacrifice  unto  your  sorrows ! 

His  sinews  are  born  of  the  nights  of  my  weeping, 

They  are  strong  for  unnumbered  and  mist- 
laden  morrows. 

Entrust  all  your  secret  tears  into  his  keeping 

As  his  mother  has  done. 

My  love  shall  be  soul  of  his  love  and  shall  heal 
you, 

In  your  pain,  or  in  shame,  or  in  pride, 

For  in  him  the  heart  of  my  heart  lived  on 

When  my  youth  died. 

O  women  who  mourn  in  the  dawn  glow  or  twi 
light, 

By  the  hearth,  at  the  well,  in  the  field, 

Whenever  the  stir  of  your  grief  moans,  pray 

That  my  faith  yield — 

Blessing  the  rack  of  God's  tear-stricken  plan — 

From  manchild — a  man ! 


40 


MORNING 

THE   bright-vestured   morning   comes   singing, 
singing 

Into  the  world  of  sleep. 
Its  song  of  sweet  silence  is  bringing 

A  spirit  of  joyousness  into  the  hills, 

A  fresh  wakened  sparkle  into  the  rills, 
An  open  sky  for  the  things  that  fly, 

And  day  for  the  things  that  creep. 


The  song  of  the  morning  is  ringing,  ringing 
In  the  bells  of  a  thousand  flowers. 

The  dew  that  is  mistily  clinging 

Is  shaken  and  shines  in  the  new  gold  sun, 
While  into  the  day,  hours  lustily  run, 

And  over  the  down  the  waking  town 
Sits  smiling  among  her  towers. 


BALLAD 

THEY  stirred  me  from  my  bed  at  morn; 
The  sword  they  brought  was  red. 
They  hissed  of  where  my  father  lay, 
Stricken  dead. 

I  fought  the  damp  mist  in  my  soul; 
My  heart  was  small  and  cold. 
Though  blood  was  reeking  on  the  blade, 
Revenge  was  old. 

I  fingered  with  shut  eyes  the  nicks 
Where  foes  had  left  their  mark, 
Like  features  on  a  dead  man's  face, 
Touched  in  the  dark. 

I  found  the  lonely,  lonely  room  ' 
And  touched  the  silent  thing; 
I  had  not  known  how  much  like  gall 
Cold  lips  can  sting. 

Then  forth  into  the  stranger  world, 
Bold  in  a  sudden  breath, 
I  went  to  find  my  foe  and  make 
Another  death. 

42 


Ballad  43 

There  is  no  hatred  in  my  breast 
And  wan  sick  is  my  eye; 
But  cold  steel  must  be  warmed  again—. 
A  man  must  die. 


WINTER 

THE  wide  white  hill  is  cold  and  far, 

Why  must  I  go  ? 

Daylight  pales  to  the  ice-point  star; 
When  thin  lone  winds  that  whistle  weird 
Come  after,  I  shall  be  afeard 

Of  the  snow. 

You  never  will  find  me  on  that  white  hill 

Though  you  search  till  day, 
And  the  sun  come  over  when  I  am  still; 
Though  my  heart  take  courage  and  start  to  beat, 
Winter  will  turn  your  friendly  feet 

Away. 

You  never  have  told  me  why  I  must  go, 

And  you  do  not  see 

Where  the  path  is  lost  in  the  waste  of  snow; 
You  know  not  the  winds  that  haunt  my  fear, 
Nor  the  friend  that  searches  that  wide,  white  bier 

For  me. 


44 


MRS.  COBURN  IN  THE  "ELEKTRA" 

O  FRAGILE  woman,  shaken  with  the  heart 
That  was  a  stricken  Titan,  how  earnest  thou 
Within  the  glory  of  the  antique  art 
That  faded  to  its  twilight,  long  ere  now? 
There  lies  a  Greek  sereneness  on  thy  brow 
Though  all  the  meaning  of  thy  mouth  is  woe, 
A  woe  begun  before  thy  murderous  vow, 
E'en  when  thy  rude  gods  struck  thee,  blow  on 

blow 

Around  thee,  slowly,  Argive  shadows  go 
But  for  thy  bruised  soul  no  comfort  hold. 
Now  he  who  hears  thy  living  voice  can  know 
The  deathless  tears  that  pity  wept,  of  old; 
And  in  the  strength  of  thy  pale  passion  sees 
The  ancient  fire  that  burned  Euripides. 


45 


RULERS 

So  have  you  walked  in  sorrow, 
So  have  you  walked  apart, 
For  the  first  word  of  creation 
Stirs  in  your  brooding  heart. 

The  power-stained  hands  of  rulers 
By  sword,  or  voice,  or  votes, 
Tear  at  the  law's  confusion 
With  prayers  that  burn  their  throats. 

But  the  ancient  faith  of  the  spirit 
In  your  soul  was  planted  deep; 
The  thrill  and  thrall  of  the  lasting  flesh 
Were  given  your  hands  to  keep. 

Men-children  talked  of  ruling 
And  fought  for  the  futile  rod, 
While  you  lay  beyond  their  knowing 
Discussing  my  birth  with  God. 

So  shall  you  walk  in  sorrow, 
So  may  you  walk  apart, 
For  the  whisper  of  creation 
Stirs  in  your  brooding  heart. 


46 


HYMN  TO  BAAL  (1914) 

OH,  Baal,  God  of  battles,  God  of  blood, 
Have  we  not  sacrificed  unto  Thy  name? 
Have  we  not  given  tithe  of  all  things  good 
And  worshipped  Thee  in  everlasting  shame? 

Have  not  high  greed  and  lust  been  honoured 

arts? 

Do  we  not  make  for  hate  unhindered  room? 
Have  we  not  given  little  children's  hearts, 
Worn  out  in  torture  at  the  clucking  loom? 

Have  we  not  driven  woman  souls,  distraught, 

Hating  them  for  beauty  and  for  pain, 

To   death?    See   what   our   righteousness   has 

wrought — 
Such  bloody  immolation  at  Thy  fane. 

Give  ear,  oh  Baal,  unto  Thy  worshippers, 
They  who  have  prated  other  Gods  than  Thee, 
Still  labouring  beneath  Thy  potent  curse, 
Their  deeds  have  helped  Thy  various  Hells  to  be. 

Withhold  Thy  hand,  must  we  give  all — all — all 
Our  youth  unto  Thy  holy  murder  rites? 
Must  they  be  bayoneted  as  they  crawl 
To  rot  in  alien  trenches  for  the  kites? 
47 


48          Hymn  to  Baal  (1914) 

We  bow  at  Thy  command.     Too  long  our  days 
Were  given  to  the  seed  of  this  despair 
For  us  to  shudder,  loathing  Thy  dark  ways. 
We  bow — but  lift  our  purpled  hands  in  prayer. 

Grant  us  that  in  the  greatest  of  Thy  feasts, 
When  half  the  earth  is  shambles,  the  black  doors 
Of  Thy  fell  heaven  shall  open  for  Thy  priests, 
Thy  czars  and  bloody-fingered  emperors. 

Take  to  Thyself,  oh  Baal,  in  Thy  red  hour, 
Thy  chosen  children,  high-put  priests  of  war, 
With  escort  of  our  young  sons,  slain  in  flower — 
And  keep  them  in  Thy  bosom  evermore. 

Take  to  Thyself  Thy  kings.     The  peoples  yet 
Will  worship  in  Thy  temples.     Now  they  reel 
For  they  have  seen  Thy  face.     Let  them  forget 
This  cataclysmic  fury  of  their  zeal. 

Thy  kings  can  do  no  more  to  honour  Thee, 
For  now  as  men  stalk  over  desolate  lands 
Their  dark,  blood-shot  imaginations  see 
Christ,  with  a  levelled  carbine  in  his  hands. 


CATALPAS 

CATALPA  blooms,  that  are  always  dying, 
Falling  leprous  on  the  lawn, 
Were  you  stirred  at  my  secret  crying 
When  I  walked  before  the  dawn? 

Catalpa  blooms,  that  live  for  an  hour, 
Was  my  sigh  but  a  windy  breath, 
Blowing  down  one  more  cold  flower, 
Wan  and  white  and  fain  of  death? 

How  could  you  know — your  life  is  but  giving 
One  faint  scent  as  a  day  goes  by — 
That  some  buds  flame  with  the  glory  of  living 
And  blaze  their  hearts  to  the  open  sky? 

Catalpa  blooms,  that  no  graves  are  kept  for, 
Lying  leprous  on  the  lawn, 
How  could  you  know  what  flowers  I  wept  for 
When  I  shuddered  at  the  dawn? 


49 


THE  POPPY 

ASTARTE'S  face  in  the  blood-red  moon  astare. 
No  breath — all  silence  in  the  heated  gloom. 
Shuddering  in  a  swoon  the  passionate  air 
Holds  in  the  garden  as  a  narrow  room; 
And  down  the  path,  the  bending  poppy-bloom 
Burns  through  the  velvet  dusk  a  crimson  flare. 

The  poppy  has  no  words,  but  potent  fire, 
Bold  in  the  darkness,  rises  in  her  heart, 
Makes  throbbing  anguish  of  her  soul,  entire; 
Sears  the  thin  petals  of  her  face  apart. 
Her  slight  stem,  shrinking  from  the  unseen  dart, 
Betrays  the  ardour  of  her  vain  desire. 

An  alien  wind  is  questing  on  the  path; 
The  swinging,  swaying  poppy  petals  hold 
A  languor  that  no  other  love-flower  hath. 
The  stranger  wind  knows  how  the  tale  is  told, 
Scatters  the  poppy  suddenly,  with  cold — 
Astarte  bleeds  the  moon  in  futile  wrath. 


A  PORTRAIT 

HE'S  one  of  those  on  whom  the  Muses  smile, 

But  never  shall  make  mad.     His  discontent 

Awaits  him  at  the  corners  of  the  day. 

We  never  hear  him  whimper,  but  he  scolds 

At  sterner  friends,  or  for  a  broken  gleam 

Of  beauty,  half-achieved,  mourns  fretfully. 

So  faintly  touched  with  grace  that  fineness  bears 

The  calumny  of  weakness,  but  too  fond. 

He  thinks  the  Muses'  smile  will  give  him  fame. 


THE  LOVE-WROUGHT  WORD 

THEY  say  that  where  the  Titan  condor  swings 
Above  the  bleakest  Andes'  misty  blue, 
Gazing  down  the  valleys  of  Peru, 
Alone,  returning  from  far  wanderings, 
Sometimes  a  humming  bird,  mere  moth  which 

brings 

A  breath  of  flowers  and  a  taste  of  dew, 
Comes  fluttering  up  the  ice  on  webbed  wings. 
So  into  pale  austerity  of  mind, 
Where  logic  conquers  as  a  taloned  bird, 
A  poet's  gossamer  device  may  find 
A  perilled  way  when,  with  ambition  stirred, 
It  mounts  to  mirror  in  the  ice  behind 
The  flashing  beauty  of  a  love- wrought  word. 


EVERY.  PILGRIM 

WITH  eyes  that  strain  for  morrows 
And  for  searching  sin  and  woe, 
With  a  mouth  that  sweetness  borrows 
From  the  smile  that  greets  a  blow, 
With  hands  too  light  for  toiling, 
And  feet  too  swift  for  soiling, 
With  no  dread  of  despoiling, 
With  no  staff  shall  he  go. 

Into  the  heat  and  sweating 
And  clinging  grime  of  day, 
Into  the  heat,  forgetting 
The  clean  morn  as  he  may; 
With  uncertain  brows  that  tighten 
When  the  first  load  will  not  lighten, 
And  a  gaze  that  cannot  brighten 
On  a  goal  too  far  away. 

Though  the  fresh  dew  on  his  shoulders 
Will  soon  vanish  in  the  sun, 
He  must  smell  the  dust  that  moulders 
On  the  graves,  ere  he  is  done. 
The  West  hoots  his  desires, 
And  the  East  must  mend  her  Fires, 
And  the  North  and  South  are  liars; 
Nowhither  may  he  run. 
53 


54  Every  Pilgrim 

But  it  is  not  useless  going 
That  the  gods  would  fain  forget, 
Nor  the  false  seed  of  his  sowing, 
Nor  the  tears  his  eyes  shall  wet; 
For  they  must  know  in  their  musing 
That  he  loves,  and  fears  not  losing, 
That  he  dreads  no  death  in  choosing, 
And  laughs  at  sure  regret. 

There  is  no  need  for  weeping 
Because  life  will  grow  stale, 
There  is  no  need  for  keeping 
Young  lips  from  growing  pale; 
But  sadder  than  all  sadness, 
And  wearier  than  madness, 
Seems  youth  who  laughs  with  gladness 
Though  knowing  he  must  fail. 


THE  EXILE 

A  LONG  low  shaking  wind  ran  through  the  grass, 
And  overhead  the  all -but-silent  leaves 
Touched  one  another  gently  as  afraid 
Of  the  unwonted  silence  in  the  wood. 
Then  slow  across  the  edge  of  open  land, 
Forspent  with  wanderings  and  still  alone, 
Lifting   his   bright   feet   through   the   meadow 

blooms 

And  scenting  with  tired  joy  the  evening  air, 
There  came  the  god  Apollo,  shut  from  Heaven, 
And  cast  upon  a  wonder-hating  world. 
Very  sad  and  strange  as  was  his  sigh, 
His  voice  a  promise  seemed  of  all  delight. 
The  ancient  tree  he  leaned  on  conscious  grew 
Of  his  divinity  but  trembled  not, 
Just  bending  on  the  radiance  of  his  head 
Its  listening  branches  as  he  paused  and  spoke: 

"I  have  not  loved  these  shaded  hills  in  vain 
Nor  ever  have  returned  to  this  dim  wood 
Without  remembrance  and  a  kindlier  welcome; 
This  green  earth  woos  me  freshly  to  my  rest; 
So  were  the  earth  and  hills  in  ancient  summers. 
But  an  unwelcome  change  is  in  my  brothers, 
These  weary  sons  of  women  who,  in  toil, 
55 


56  The  Exile 

Forget  their  kinship.    My  own  song  has  come 

Like  a  sweet  whisper  and  their  clanging  ears 

Have  never  heeded  it.     So  loud  they  shout 

Their  need  of  corn  and  wine,  and  clamour  long 

Within  the  markets,  music  knows  them  not. 

Pan's  pipes  are  fallen  unto  bastard  satyrs, 

And  careless  Bacchus  sleeps,  his  dull-eyed  crew 

Drinks  and  drinks  and  drinks,  but  still  is  dumb. 

A  god  may  weary  in  such  weary  days 

And  I  am  weary  with  their  misery. 

They  have  not  loved  Olympus;  all  the  gods 

That  once  ranged  over  Heaven  from  that  hill 

Are  wandering  forlorn  and  not  a  shrine 

But  pilfered  ruins  on  Athenian  hills 

Is  open  to  them,  and  no  worshippers 

Wait  there  to  keep  a  sacrificial  flame. 

How  can  they  know  that  nectar  does  not  bide 

Within  the  cup  they  never  dare  to  lift? 

Though  dryad  trees  go  screaming  through  the 

mills 

Their  spirit,  breathless,  broods  in  every  wall 
That  men  have    raised  against  the  muse  of 

song. 

Still  Triton's  hair  entangles  in  the  whirl 
Of  their  great  ships  that  lash  a  heavy  way 
Over  seas,  still  Neptune's  own  dominion. 
Exiled  in  immortality  we  wait 
Until  the  face  of  man  be  lifted  up 
And  from  his  lips,  pain-scarred  of  laboured  days, 
Breaks  forth  again  the  glory  of  his  song." 


The  Exile  57 

The  god  ceased  speaking  as  his  chariot  sun 
In  slow  diminished  radiance  on  the  sky 
Proclaimed  his  greatness  to  the  dark-hushed 

world. 

But  from  the  city  whose  irreverent  towers 
Were  glimmering  with  futile  glow-worm  stars 
Came  surging  heavy  smoke,  a  thick  oblivion, 
That  dulled  and  then  obscured  the  sun's  farewell. 
It  stalked  into  the  wood  where  Apollo  rested 
And  as  the  little  leaves  shrank  and  upcurled, 
And  tainted  was  the  sweet  breath  of  the  wood 
He  fled  to  find  a  holier  resting  place. 


ANDREA'S  MORNING 
("Andrea  del  Sarto"  by  Robert  Browning.) 

LAST  night,  perhaps,  I  may  have  been  more 

kind. 

Musing  in  the  evening's  sober  quiet, 
A  peaceful  melancholy  cradled  me 
And  soothed  self-questioning.     Now,  my  love, 
The  brackish  dregs  of  old  desires,  astir, 
Taste  bitter,  when  the  morning  brings  a  pale 
And  virgin  day,  which  I  must  soil  and  mar. 
Sit  here;  let  the  fresh  day-beams  illume  you. 
They  may  light  new  beauty  in  your  eyes, 
Your  tired  indifferent  eyes,  I  call  my  stars. 
No,  I  am  not  pettish,  'tis  my  mood. 
My  eyes  are  tired,  too,  my  body's  eyes, 
And  so  my  soul's  eyes  smart  with  too  much 

seeing. 

Last  night,  I  gazed  upon  a  twilight  piece, 
"Silvered,"  I  think  I  called  it,  well  content. 
This  morning  all  seems  like  a  tinsel  screen 
Whose  charms  are  sick  and  tawdry,  seen  by  day. 
Last  night  I  mused;  this  morning  a  harsh  truth 
Bids  me  to  see.     Ah,  love,  look  not  so  wan — 
You  should  not  waste  your  beauty  on  those 

friends. 

58 


Andrea's  Morning  59 

Sometimes,  Lucrezia,  they  ask  too  much 

And  yet  you  will  content  them.     Guard  yourself. 

You  are  my  model,  now,  as  well  as  wife. 

Do  you  remember  that  I  wondered  why 

A  beauty  such  as  yours  could  not  have  soul? 

I  thought  your  sweet  perfection  lacked  a  mind. 

I  blamed  you,  since  in  such  half-thinking,  blame 

And  praise  are  shades  of  the  same  melancholy — • 

It  mattered  not.     But  now  my  thinking's  clear. 

The  lack  is  in  myself;  the  fault  is  mine. 

Not  art — my  service  in  her  name  is  great 

In  being  only  what  they  call  it,  "faultless," 

Though  it  were  soulless  still,  which  it  is  not 

To  those  who  see.     The  soul  is  in  a  hand 

That  draws  aright,  whatever  it  may  draw, 

And  I  have  drawn  aright.     Too  well  I  know 

There  is  soul  in  the  struggle  not  the  deed. 

My  fight  has  been  to  live,  not  to  paint. 

Painting  was  too  easy,  but  the  soul 

Has  had  a  sorry  battle  in  my  life. 

Aye,  they  will  sneer  at  what  I  call  my  fight, 

They — for  whom  we  do  not  care — will  think 

Losing  was  so  simple;  and  winning,  hard. 

But  the  thing  I've  lost  is  not  my  art. 

You,  my  love,  I've  lost.     That  is  my  sin. 

You  do  not  care.     Even  now  your  head, 

Turned  aside  with  a  forgotten  smile, 

Proves  we  do  not  love.     Proves  I  have  failed. 

Those  who  can  do  the  godlike  deed,  who  feel 

In  their  own  hands  the  power  to  execute, 


60  Andrea's  Morning 

Know,  as  I  know,  that  what  they  do  is  naught : 

Know  that  when  their  work  falls,  finished,  done, 

To  them  it  is  indifferent.     Within, 

Within  their  own  breasts  is  the  loss~and  gain. 

The  execution  of  our  hands  is  naught 

When  'tis  complete.     In  it  there  is  meaning 

Only  when  it  stops,  midway  to  truth. 

So  I  have  lost,  not  what  I  might  have  done 

Which  were  too  much — but  what  I  might  have 

been. 

There  must  be  some  unknowing  lack  in  me 
Else  you  would  love  me.    Though  I  choose  to 

hold 

You  dearer  than  all  else,  I  cannot  gain 
More  favour  than  is  given  any  cousin. 
Forgive  me  if  my  words  are  plain.    But  there, 
You  were  not  listening  to  them.     Better  so. 
The  glory  you  must  fail  to  understand, 
Royal  favour,  praise,  and  ease  for  work, 
All  these  are  worthless  to  me,  for  I  know 
How  my  hands  could  gain  them  if  my  heart 
Thus  could  be  satisfied.     But  no,  the  dream 
That  sometimes  I  have  dared  to  look  upon, 
Knowing  how  wistful  far  it  was  from  truth, 
Has  had  no  king,  nor  king's  gold — only  you. 
If  but  once,  Lucrezia,  you  could  come 
Unbidden  to  my  arms,  if  your  soft  voice 
Could  call  me,  losing  softness  in  desire, 
If  passion  could  but  once  flame  in  your  eyes 
And  circle  us  with  fire,  and  burn  me  through, 


Andrea's  Morning  61 

Then  in  that  searing  baptism  of  love 
I  might  be  once  divine  and  reach  my  height. 
Yes,  many  men  have  this,  who  have  no  art. 
I  fail,  because  a  being  formed  as  I, 
Tuned  to  a  higher  key,  gifted  with  clearer  sight, 
Should  feel  it  more — and  feel  it  not  at  all. 
Such  little  gifts  as  deeds  are  paltry  cheap 
To  God,  who  gave  us  souls,  souls  to  feel. 
And  such  as  I  who  might  have  felt  His  breath 
Once  in  my  life,  ecstatic  in  my  being, 
Would  fill  His  purpose  if  I  knew  His  touch, 
And  like  a  harp,  when  struck,  gave  true  response. 
I  would  not  thus  have  failed  if  my  desire 
For  your  love  could  but  once  be  all  fulfilled. 
Here,  you  see,  the  lack  and  fault  is  mine, 
For  somewhere  in  your  heart  must  be  a  chord 
I  might  have  touched  and  won  you.     Failing 

here, 

I  paint  the  perfect  pictures  men  will  buy. 
Last  night  the  quietude  of  twilight  peace 
Made  all  seem  just,  and  I  was  sad — content. 
But  now  my  fancies  shrivel  in  the  sun; 
The  guilt  is  mine  and  mine  the  punishment ; 
But  punishment  is  not  my  "soulless"  art. 
If  you  would  give  yourself,  all,  all,  but  once, 
That  were  enough,  and  end  of  earth's  desire — 
The  painting  I  could  do  in  Paradise. 


MIST 

IT  was  a  vaporous  midnight,  and  the  dark 
Unfriendly  street  forbade  my  journey  home, 
Put  out  grey  questioning  fingers,  wet  and  cold, 
That  touched  my  face  and  scattered  in  my  breath 
Like  filmy  outposts  of  retreating  gloom. 
Beleaguered  lights,  with  feeble  yellow  shine 
Were  brave,  then  craven,  cheering  as  I  came, 
But  shrinking  from  me,  faithless,  as  I  passed. 

Then  out  of  that  white  darkness  came  a  shape, 
Not  stranger  to  me,  yet  not  one  I  knew, 
And  seemed  to  lag  before  me  as  if  loth 
To  turn  and  greet  me  openwise,  but  held 
Unwillingly  from  flight.     There  was  a  sway 
Of  woman  garments  and  small  drops  like  dew 
Shone  on  them,  silverly.     I  saw  no  face; 
My  pace  had  eagerness,  but  not  a  step 
Was  gained  in  my  pursuit,  for  still  beyond 
My  reach  and  ken  she  moved.     A  yellow  lamp 
Glowed  dimly  on  her  though  the  darkness  took 
Her  shadow  gluttonously.     She  was — was  not — 
Was  not — and  was — until  I  tired  of  chase 
And  called  aloud.     My  words  came  back  to  me 
In  little  echoes  and  the  night  was  still; 
It  was  more  chilly  silent  for  my  noise. 
62 


Mist  63 

She  turned  then,  pausing,  searching  me  with  eyes 
I  felt  the  gaze  of  but  could  not  discern 
Except  as  living  shadows  in  damp  gloom. 
I  feared  to  lose  her  utterly  in  the  dark. 
"Who  are  you,  oh,  who  are  you?"     So  my  lips 
Spoke  out  my  question  ere  I  knew. 

"lam 
"  One  whom  you  seek,  and  have  sought,  many 

years," 

She  answered,  but  I  could  not  see  her  face. 
Her  voice  was  sweet  and  like  a  fountain  fallen 
From  such  a  height  that  there  is  scarcely  sound 
But  only  vapours,  rainbow-struck,  to  fall. 
It  came,  heart-reaching,  but  no  memory 
Awoke  to  tell  me  who  had  such  a  voice. 

I  was  still  groping.     "Did  I  know  you  once?" 
Boldly  I  spoke.     "And  did  I  lose  the  grace  ' 

"  Of  your  forgotten  presence  which  now  comes 
"Disquieting?" 

"You  have  not  known  me  yet;  - 

II  Although  you  seek  me.     I  am  but  the  shade 
"  Of  long  desires,  your  own;  a  prophecy; 

"  A  portent,  and  fulfilment.     I  have  come 
"  To  tell  you  that  the  end  of  fevered  prayers 
"  Will  soon  be  granted  you,  for  even  now 
"  Your  soul  is  on  the  brink  of  your  delight. 
"  One  hour  is  given.     For  one  hour  the  depth 
"  And  height  of  all  your  destined  joy  shall  be 
"  Before  you.     In  that  hour  be  bravely  glad, 
"  For  after  it  come  other  hours." 


64  Mist 

The  night 
Which    had    been    chill  and  cloud-enveloped, 

glowed 

Now  with  a  sudden  splendour,  for  was  born 
A  fire  in  my  own  eyes,  dispelling  dark. 
So  bright  my  eager  vision  was  that  moist 
Uncertain  flickering  was  trustworthy  light 
To  judge  a  messenger  of  heaven  by. 
My  soul  believed. 

"Bring  me  that  hour,"  I  cried. 
"Bring  me  that  single  hour  of  all.     Hold  back 
"  No  moment  from  fulfillment.     Let  all  joy 
11  That  I  am  heir  to  drown  me  in  a  flood." 
She  swayed  and  swept  a  hand  out  toward  me. 

"Wait; 

"  Remember  that  your  all  comes  in  that  hour, 
"  All  you  shall  ever  know  of  love,  of  peace, 
"  Belief  in  heaven's  kindness,  recompense 
"  For  all  that  is  thereafter,  or  before." 
And  there  was  some  far  warning,  but  my  soul 
Surged  upward  in  a  clamour  of  desire 
To  know  my  all,  to  gather  in  one  hour 
My  fruit  of  laughter.     Never  could  my  soul 
Be  braver  than  it  was  that  moment,  brave 
To    spend    my  greatest  hour.      But  the  un 
known 

Who  waited,  silent,  shrinking,  turned  away 
And  sadness  faintly  touched  me. 

"I  am  she — 
"  Unhappy — who  shall  bring  you  in  that  hour 


Mist  65 

"  The  taste  of  love,  the  one  breath  you  may  know 
"  Of  passion  without  shadow,  taint,  or  pain." 
The  vapours  moving  as  she  spoke  brought  chill 
Rebuke  to  my  fierce  eagerness.     There  grew 
A  slow  distrust  of  the  moment  and  of  her. 
"  I  have  not  chosen  fate  for  you, "  she  said, 
"But  tears  of  mine  are  futile  as  your  own." 
"Give  what  is  mine,"  I  begged.     "I  have  not 

feared. 

"  Give  me  my  own;  be  it  bitter,  I  can  drink 
"  The  bitterness  with  a  smile;  or  if  that  hour 
11  Shall  come  when  all  of  joy — " 

"Not  all,  "she  broke 

My  speech.     "Not  all  of  joy,  but  all  that  you 
"  May  ever  know."     Again  the  dark  drew  down. 
I  saw  her  bending  toward  the  yellow  lamp 
As  if  to  keep  within  the  light,  as  if 
The  night  dragged  at  her  garments ;  and  I  strode, 
Though  fear  was  on  me,  with  an  arm  outheld 
To  clutch  at  her  and  keep  her.     "When  will 

come 
"This  hour?     How  shall  I  know  it?"     But  my 

hand 
Struck  hard  the  wet  iron  post    beneath    the 

lamp. 

"When   comes  this  hour?"     My  cry  was  an 
guished.     Slow 
She  drew  aside  from  me.     "When  comes  this 

hour?" 
The  heavy  fog  grew  heavier  and  the  lamp, 


66  Mist 

As  if  affrighted  by  the  chill  advance, 
Gave  up  its  guttered  life.     An  answer  came 
From  somewhere    to    my  echoed  "When    the 
hour?'1 

"Now!    Now!"  her  voice  sobbed,  and  she  fled 

away, 
And  there  were  cold  wet  kisses  on  my  mouth. 


THE  PATRIARCH 

A  COTTAGE  in  the  dulness  of  mean  streets, 

By  pavements  flint  and  dusty,  is  a  home 

Of  patriarchal  dignity,  and  peace 

Has  rested  on  its  dingy  eaves.     A  Jew 

Whose  spirit  still  by  far  Siloam  dwells 

With  stalwart  sons  keeps  here  his  ancient  faith; 

And  deep  content  abode  with  faith,  but  now 

Grim  sorrow  is  the  steward  of  his  house. 

It  was  a  shingled  tabernacle  set 

With  houses  faced  the  same  in  outward  look 

But  lacking  in  this  hidden  holiness. 

Not  in  the  eastern  city's  fetid  slum 

But  in  a  street,  a  street  where  wagons  passed 

And  hucksters  cried  and  some  few  children  ran; 

But  still  it  was  a  desert  and  no  soul 

Of  fellowship  was  there,  no  kindly  shade, 

No  welcome  neighbour  friendships  and  no  love. 

Into  the  patriarchal  house,  a  boy 
Came  out  of  deepest  Russia,  ignorant. 
In  his  own  race  he  knew  no  straight-eyed  pride, 
And  things  he  knew  of  Western  life  and  ways 
Were  half  imaginary;  still  unlearned 
He  boasted  knowledge.     Feverish  for  trade, 
Thin  money  sounds  made  all  his  music.     Here 
67 


68  The  Patriarch 

He  found  the  quietness  of  antique  pride 

For  in  this  arid  meanness  was  upheld 

The  sanctity  and  consciousness  of  race. 

The  sons  were  seven  and  to  fill  a  purse 

Lean-sprung  and  empty,  all  did  heavy  toil, 

Save  only  little  Aaron  still  in  school. 

They  held  each  penny  with  more  painful  care 

Than  Anglo-Saxon  stature  would  allow 

But  paid  to  every  bargainer  his  due. 

And  often  when  some  sordid,  shrewish  wife 

Called  their  dealings  false  in  loud  complaint 

They  quietly  gave  up  the  profit  small 

To  save  the  name  of  Jew  from  one  more  curse. 

Patiently  the  Patriarch  would  teach 

His  sons  to  mould  their  lives  unto  his  own ; 

And  often  when  they  gathered  to  their  home, 

Too  weary  of  their  merchandise,  he  read 

Talmudic  lore  and  conned  the  ancient  law. 

The  small  house,  burdened  with  so  many  lives 

Was  never  ordered  but  no  fretfulness 

Broke  its  contentment  and  the  mother's  face 

Was  full  of  quiet  smiles  and  austere  love. 

By    zeal    the    wayward    stranger    might    have 

reached 

Their  kindly  calmness  but  he  heeded  not. 
When  Irish  lads  of  alien  faith  were  by 
He  mocked  the  rabbi  with  them,  and  of  nights, 
He  dipped  in  vice — half  understanding  it. 
So  recklessness  was  gathered.     Some  few  months 
He  dwelt  within  the  house,  but  still  a  stranger, 


The  Patriarch  69 

Not  sensing  its  one  common  well-based  thought 
To  lead  a  life  as  pleased  the  Patriarch. 
To  him  the  old  Jew  was  a  kinsman,  poor 
Like  himself,  and  gilded  with  no  glitter 
That  could  attract  his  eye.     The  seven  sons 
Regarded  him  as  one  who  tarried  not, 
A  guest  but  for  a  day. 

Once  returned 

From  some  late  vigil  in  the  city  streets 
The  boy  came  home  aflame  and  eager  deeds 
Leaped,  all  chaotic,  in  his  heart.     He  stole 
Into  the  bedroom  where  the  eldest  son 
Lay  reading  on  his  cot.     "Jacob, "  he  called, 
And  poured  in  Jacob's  patient  ear  the  tales 
Of  lurid  dramas  seen  in  nickel  shows. 
The  boy  would  reproduce  each  deed  as  done 
And  in  description  of  a  murder  scene 
Snatched  from  a  shelf  a  weapon  long  unused, 
The  relic  of  a  noisy  festal  day. 
He  flourished  it  in  mad  recital,  sprung 
The  rusty  trigger,  and  sent  heavy  death 
Into  drowsy  Jacob's  heart. 

That  sound, 

Reverberating  in  the  little  house, 
Burst  like  thunder  in  the  Patriarch's  dreams; 
Roused  the  other  sons  to  fear;  the  mother, 
Knowing  disaster  in  its  first  footstep, 
With  face  gone  grey,  lay  on  her  bed  and  waited. 
Into  the  room,  heart-hesitant  in  speed, 
Came  all  the  brothers  who  set  up  a  cry 


70  The  Patriarch 

Over  Jacob  gasping  in  his  pain. 
In  hurried  dignity  the  father  came, 
Stumbled,  heart-stricken,  in  the  door  and  cried 
One  cry  of  anguish.     There  was  then  no  need 
To  tell  how  had  this  sudden  reckless  death 
Come  with  devastation  to  his  house. 
The  boy,  still  pointing  with  his  murderous  hands, 
In  silence  waited  for  the  wrath  to  break, 
But  storm  came  not,  and  silent  were  they  all. 
Suddenly  the  sons  would  have  put  hands 
Upon  the  interloper  and  one  went 
Screaming  to  the  doorway,  but  a  word 
Checked  him  and  he  stood.     The  Patriarch 
Knelt  down  and  cast  his  arms  about  his  son 
And  tears  fell  in  his  beard.     Nothing  moved 
But  sobbing  grief.     At  last  he  turned  to  him 
Who  stood  with  blood  upon  his  thankless  hands. 
"Go  now,"   he  said.     "Go  far  from  here.     I 

would 

That  never  should  I  see  your  face  again. 
Go  now — go  quickly,  no  one  holds  you — go." 
But  as  he  went  by  in  the  gas-lit  hall 
The  stranger  shrank  before  the  Patriarch 
Fearing  the  dark  menace  of  his  eyes, 
Not  knowing  how  they  blazed  of  other  fires. 
"Father,"  Jacob  called.     The  stranger  passed. 
Then  quietly,  but  with  fear-sickened  haste, 
The  father  sent  for  doctors  who  might  wrest 
Young  Jacob  back  from  death,  and  while  he 

prayed 


The  Patriarch  71 

They  ministered.     A  thin  grey  morning  broke 

And  in  a  van  they  took  the  son  from  home 

To  that    grey,  silent,  pain-soaked  pile,  where 

tears 

Make  everlasting  mist,  the  hospital. 
The  Patriarch  and  his  six  sons  went  on 
Day  after  day,  with  drudging  toil  and  grief 
Fit  heartmates.     But  no  word  was  ever  spoke 
To  any  stranger  or  to  any  friend 
Of  Jacob  or  the  lodger  who  had  gone. 

Two  weeks  lay  Jacob  in  the  house  of  pain 
Communing  with  his  torture.     At  his  door 
He  saw  the  silent  trundle  carts  go  by 
With  white- wrapped  bodies  to  the  ether  pit, 
Where  surgeons,   garbed  like  bakers,   warmed 

their  knives 
And  scattered  wounds  like  dice — to  play  with 

death. 
When  Jacob  went  into  the  pit,  death  won. 

Then  when  faith  tottered  in  the  father's  heart, 
They  came,  the  flies  of  city  carrion, 
Reporters,  undertakers,  crass  police 
And  buzzed  about  him.     There  they  pressed  his 

grief 

To  tell  the  story  o'er  and  o'er  until 
His  brain  was  mad  to  bursting  and  his  heart 
Was  crushed  and  sodden  with  his  agony. 


72  The  Patriarch 

"You  must  tell  who  has  done  this  thing,"  they 

said, 

"You  must  put  into  motion  all  the  powers 
Of  coroners,  police,  publicity, 
To  find  the  man  and  fix  the  lasting  stain 
Of  crime  upon  his  head." 

The  Patriarch 

Sat  with  his  sons  and  answered  not.     He  gave 
Old  funeral  wines  and  funeral  cakes  and  fed 
The  other  bearded  Jews  who  came  to  him. 
But  to  their  questions  and  the  hectic  quiz 
Of  small  officials  he  gave  one  reply, 
In  saying,  "Vengeance  is  Mine,  sailh  the  Lord." 
That  was  the  antique  mercy  of  his  race 
And  in  that  he  was  fixed.     These  alien  powers 
Who  whirled  their  speedy  city  round  his  home, 
And  moved  in  countless  ways  he  did  not  sense, 
And  fought  for  prizes  he  would  still  have  scorned, 
Serving  many  other  gods  than  Yahwe, 
He  despised,  and  would  not  traffic  with  them. 
"Thus  saith  the  Lord,  Vengeance  is  Mine,"  he 

said 
In    his  own  speech,  and    turned    to  his  own 

prayers. 

One  of  Hebraic  blood  had  done  him  wrong; 
Between  them  should  that  score  remain.     His 

race, 

Close  interlocked,  close  blooded,  shut  the  town 
From  gazing  on  this  cruel  dishonour.     Bowed 
To  grief  his  head  was  low,  but  lifted  up 


The  Patriarch  73 

To  breathe  a  slow  defiance  to  the  law 

Of  aliens  who  would  help  avenge  his  wrong. 

These  had  not  cost  him  any  thought  before 

Nor  should  they  come  to  sanctuary  now, 

Nor  move  the  vestments  of  despair.     His  silence 

Brought  on  his  head  their  pettiness  but  left 

Them  no  resource  but  anger.    Unhurt,  unmoved, 

He  wrapped  himself  in  grief  and  held  his  peace. 

He  stood  secure  and  in  defeat  went  by 

The  whole  machinery  of  pettiness. 

None    knew    the    far-fled    boy.      None    could 

disturb 

The  peace  of  Jacob's  soul  with  clumsy  justice. 
Serene  in  the  confusion  of  small  gods 
The  Patriarch  feared  One  and  kept  the  Word. 

Bred  in  lowly  trafficking  and  trained 
In  ancient  miseries  of  hate,  the  line 
Of  Moses  lives  from  Nebo  to  a  day 
When  city  streets  are  deserts  of  despair. 


THE  CARDINAL  DANCES 

LIFE  at  the  court  of  France  was  stiff  brocade, 
And  Louis  revelled  in  its  banal  sheen. 
Basking  in  his  smiles,  his  gallants  played 
For  hearts  or  jewels.     The  king's  eye  was  keen 
At  prizing  trifles,  but  this  pomp  was  mean 
While  Louis  walked  alone  and  knew  no  pride 
Of  sharing  glory  with  a  glorious  queen. 
So  ministers  into  great  kingdoms  hied 
To  seek  one,  young,  and  fair  enough  to  walk 
beside. 

But  many  grievous  plans  of  state  held  back 
The  consummation  of  the  king's  desire 
And  kept  him  waiting  till  he  filled  the  lack 
Of  queenly  counsel  with  a  giddy  choir 
Of  chirping  mistresses.     None  could  aspire 
To  sit  co-regent  on  his  carven  throne, 
So  each  one  gave  her  loveliness  entire 
(He  told  himself)  for  his  love's  sake  alone. 
He  laughed  at  queens  and  said  his  fancy  needed 
none. 

Too  nimble  in  these  follies  was  the  king, 
And  if  sometimes  his  mood  grew  slow  and  cold, 
74 


The  Cardinal  Dances  75 

His  counsellor  could  whisper  hints  to  bring 
His  blood  up,  and  his  nymphs  were  always  bold. 
His  counsellor,  red-hatted,  white,  and  old, 
Dried  up  with  scheming  for  imperious  France, 
Kept  Louis  blind,  lest  he  might  fear  the  hold 
Of  the  cardinal's  rule,  and  by  an  evil  chance 
See  more  than  pleased  him  in  one  swift  and  kingly 
glance. 

The  queen  came  on  from  Austria  in  spring, 
And  like  the  spring  she  was,  like  some  young  tree 
Which  feels  a  bursting  gladness  and  the  fling 
Of  sap  that  hastens  upward.     She  could  be 
Like  tear-wet  April  apple  trees  and  she 
Was  young  as  a  slim  sapling  to  the  core. 
Into  her  changing  days  she  could  not  see, 
And  gave,  unthrifty,  from  her  beauty's  store 
As  if  the  spring  and  sun  could  shine  for  evermore. 

You  would  have  thought  no  hard  magnificence 
Could  ever  waste  her  freshness,  and  no  cirque 
Of  gold  could  bind  such  brows  in  the  intense 
Unlovely  lines  of  majesty.     The  smirk 
Of  painted  courtiers  would  be  fruitless  work 
To  change  a  girl  so  wholesomely  athrill 
With  sunlight,  and  no  shadow  things  could  lurk 
About  her  feet,  who  lived  with  dauntless  will 
And  a  soft  smile  on  the  Fates  who  shatter  or 
fulfil. 


76          The  Cardinal  Dances 

Caparisoned  to  greet  the  Austrian  queen 

The  court  and  town  were  restless  till  she  came. 

And  when  her  beauty  bloomed  there  and  was 

seen, 
The  wide  streets  gladdened  with  her  shouted 

name. 

Her  car  was  followed  by  a  wild  acclaim 
And  on  their  silken  easy  knees  to  fall 
All  court-bred  Frenchmen  filed.     The  shallow 

game 

Was  played  to  win  her  smiles.     One  last  of  all 
To  pay  his  loyal  homage  stalked  the  cardinal. 

He  was  no  more  than  any  red-robed  priest ; 
There  was  no  friend  to  whisper  her,  "Be  kind." 
And  so  before  her  cool  hand  was  released 
She  drew  it  sharp  away,  and  from  her  mind 
Put  memory  of  the  tense,  drawn  face  whose 

lined 

And  sinister  remembrance  was  a  fear 
To  those  who  begged  his  pity  and  resigned 
Their  feeble  faith  in  God,  saw  ruin  near, 
When  he  condemned  them  silently  with  solemn 

sneer. 

The  cardinal  rose  up  from  his  thin  knees. 
The  colour  scarcely  flickered  in  his  cheek; 
His  flush  of  shame  went  deeper.     But  with  ease 
He  turned  and   chose  one  from   the   gallants 
sleek 


The  Cardinal  Dances  77 

As  if  he  might  of  some  state  matter  speak, 
But  told  him  nothing,  until,  with  a  start 
Dismissed  him  in  excuses  almost  meek. 
And  ever  eyed  the  queen  and  stood  apart 
Because  her  beauty  stirred  the  beating  of  his 
heart. 

The  cardinal's  youth  had  withered:  it  had  not 

died, 

And  he  was  prey  of  sudden  passions.     The  queen 
Was  in  his  dreams  from  that  first  night.    He  tried 
To  free  himself,  but  her  young  face,  once  seen, 
Was  a  provoking  memory  and  a  keen 
Suggestion  of  desire.     He  filled  his  days 
With  enterprises  mighty  but  between 
His  eye  and  France  her  face  arose.     A  haze 
Of  thoughts  too  mad  for  thinking  hung  on  his 

austere  ways. 

He  spied  the  queen  from  angles  in  the  halls, 
When  she  went  by  and  her  high  laughter  rang 
To  waken  echoes  from  the  dull  gilt  walls. 
He  listened,  hidden,  when  she  trilled  and  sang 
Among  the  garden  hedges,  and  a  pang 
Of  jealous  envy  struck  him  when  to  each 
Pert  courtier  who  at  her  sweet  bidding  sprang 
She  gave  a  smile.     Though  priest  he  could  not 

preach 
To  his  own  passion  which  would  some  day  find 

its  speech. 


78  The  Cardinal  Dances 

She  never  cared  to  know  how  Louis'  power 
Was    gathered    in    the     hands    of     this     one 

priest, 
This  gaunt  red  shadow  whose  thin  brows  could 

lower 

With  such  a  tragic  hatred,  and  whose  least 
Disdain  could  ruin  lives.     His  love  increased 
Into  a  desperate  tenderness,  too  like 
The  fawning  of  a  silent  scarlet  beast, 
Or  like  the  intent  slow  whirring  of  a  shrike, 
Poised,  with  its  talons  loosened,  ere  they  curl 

and  strike. 

One   day    the   queen   walked,  thoughtful,  and 

her  maids 

Chattered  unheard  behind  her.     She  had  caught 
A  mood  of  homesick  longing  for  the  glades 
And  green-lit  woods  she  once  knew,  and  she 

thought 

Unhappily  of  old  days.     This  court  had  taught 
Her  heart  that  bravest  smiling  may  not  gain 
The  love  and  honour  of  a  king,  for  nought 
Of  all  her  loveliness  could  end  the  reign 
Of  favourites  who'd  have  scorned  to  spare  her 

any  pain. 

Silently,  from  behind  the  maidens,  came 
The  cardinal,  and  in  his  deep  eyes  shone 
The  unearthly  faggots  of  his  soul  in  flame. 
He  signalled  maids  to  go.     He  was  alone, 


The  Cardinal  Dances  79 

Alone  with  his  sad  queen,  and  in  a  tone 
Which  made  her  turn  and  stare,  he  asked  her 

leave 

To  speak  of  enterprises,  not  his  own, 
But  of  great  import.     She  could  not  believe 
That  any  man  might  dare  thus  pluck  her  by  the 

sleeve. 


He  spoke  with  haggard  gentleness  of  mien 
But  his  hot  gaze  was  searching  for  her  eyes. 
Her  dignity  was  held  up  as  a  screen, 
And  when  she  deigned  to  give  him  brief  replies 
She  looked  across  the  garden  absent-wise. 
She  knew  he  trembled  but  she  never  turned, 
Nor  cared  to  know  if  he  spoke  truth  or  lies. 
She  had  not  listened  and  she  had  not  learned 
That    there    were    dangers   in    this   man,    yet 
undiscerned. 

But,  growing  incoherent,  he  looked  away 
And  lips  which  had  been  eloquent  before 
Were  stiffened  harshly.  They  were  used  to 

sway 

And  were  not  schooled  to  plead  or  to  implore. 
He  stammered  in  embarrassment  and  tore 
His  sleeve  with  nervous  fingers.     In  his  rage 
He  cursed  in  whispers  his  poor  lack  of  lore 
Of  such  speech  as  was  known  to  any  page 
And  cursed  in  bitterness  the  stigma  of  his  age. 


8o          The  Cardinal  Dances 

He  left  the  queen,  amazed  at  his  despair, 

And    sought   release   to   cool   his   stammering 

wrath, 

Thinking  thereafter,  for  his  peace,  to  share 
A  place  with  her  familiars,  haunt  her  path 
And  then  as  if  to  save  her  from  the  scath 
Of  Louis'  coldness  (though  she  was  above 
Mere  admiration  or  the  aftermath 
Of  jealousy-awakened  spouse's  love) 
To  offer  his  devotion — ask  her  to  be  the  glove 

In   which   his   hand   ruled   France.     Thus   by 

degrees 

He  put  himself  within  her  reach.     The  sight 
Of  his  gaunt  eager  face  ceased  to  displease 
The  lonely  young  queen.     His  uncleric  might 
She  carelessly  leaned  on  as  royal  right, 
And  swayed  grim  cruelty  with  unthinking  grace. 
Then  his  hot  hopes  grew  up  again  from  blight; 
Serene  indifference  left  her  sweet  face, 
He  saw  a  haughty  friendship  growing  in  its 

place. 

There  came  a  day  when  some  affair  of  state 
Had   caught  the    Austrian's    fancy    and  they 

spoke 

Secretly  together  on  the  fate 
Of  a  noble  who  grew  impudent.     Then  broke 
The  cardinal's  control.     She  saw  him  choke 


The  Cardinal  Dances  81 

With  a  fierceness  of  entreaty,  saw  him  fall 
And  push  his  white  face  in  her  broidered  cloak. 
But,  seeing  pain,  she  pitied  not  at  all 
And  her  light  laugh  went  chiming  coolly  through 
the  hall. 

A  month   before   she  might   have   called   the 

guard, 

Nor  doubted  that  her  word  would  stronger  be. 
But  now  although  her  sweet  young  eyes  were 

hard 

She  listened  when  he  stammered  love,  and  she 
Rested  her  hands  in  his,  nor  pulled  them  free. 
"Be  gracious,  let  me  end  deceit, "  he  said, 
"Give  me  but  leave  to  ease  my  heart  to  thee. 
"Be  gracious."     Then  his  fear  and  shame  were 

fled; 
He  towered  compelling  in  his  priestly  robes  of  red. 

"I  am  not  one  who  could  love  any  queen, 
"For  I  have  all  of  France  to  take  my  heart. 
"But  you  are  that  one  different  who  has  seen 
"Me  anguished,  with  sweet  eyes  which  melt 

apart 

"The  red  veil  on  my  soul.     Bid  me  depart 
"Or  bid  me  hope,  you  cannot  wipe  away 
"This  honour  for  your  glorious  self.     No  art 
"Of  praising  have  I,  but  my  deeds  can  say 
"The  speeches  for  me,  and  make  great  your 

royal  day. 


82          The  Cardinal  Dances 

"Bid  me  serve  France  for  you  as  I  have  served 
"Her  for  herself.     For  your  sake  bid  me  turn 
"  Her  kingdoms  into  empires.     My  arm,  nerved 
"  With  thinking  on  you,  can  make  beacons  burn 
"On  a  thousand  mountains  so  the  world  may 

learn 

"That  Anne  is  empress!"    With  a  distant  smile 
Anne  heard  his  sounding  speech.     She  did  not 

spurn 

His  importunate  fierce  hands  but  for  a  while 
Looked  slowly  on  him,  with  a  face  too  sweet  for 

guile. 

"But,  my  lord  cardinal,"  she  spoke  at  last, 

"I  am  too  young.     My  heart  and  loves  are 

swift. 

"In  council  with  you  I  am  grave;  once  past 
"The  council  door,  I  am  a  child.     The  gift 
"Of  my  love  must  be  given  one  who'll  lift 
"My  heaviness  of  sorrow.     Can  you  dance? 
"Make  merrier  sport  with  me?    Can  your  eyes 

shift 

"This  solemn  pleading  for  a  happier  glance? 
' '  I  have  not  seen  you  laugh.     You  do,  sometimes, 

perchance?" 

"Aye,  I  might  laugh  again,  if  the  queen  would 

smile." 

"Laugh  then  and  she  might  smile  to  see  you  lose 
"The  grimmest  visage  in  her  empire.     While 
"A  lover  frowns  so  thickly,  she  could  choose 


The  Cardinal  Dances  83 

"No  answer  but  her  scorn.     She'd  not  refuse 
"To  think  on  you,  lord  cardinal,  as  her  friend 
"If  you  would  aid  her  weary  days  to  amuse. 
"Make  sport  for  her  and  fate  will  kindness  send. 
"Her   love? — Who   knows   what   may   reward 
you  in  the  end?" 

The  quick  grey  light  leaped  in  the  cardinal's 

eye. 

"To  win  your  favour,  I'd  play  harlequin," 
He  jested.     "Play  it  then,"  was  her  reply. 
He  raised  the  query  with  his  eyebrows  thin, 
But  she  was  earnest.     "She  may  see  you  in 
"Her  chamber  at  the  stroke  of  ten.     The  door 
"Will  open  only  to  Pierrot.     Sin 
"May  please  a  queen  with  laughter.     Then  no 

more 
"  Of  frowns,  my  lord.     Let  us  hear  your  laughter 


That  night  before  the  stroke  of  ten  o'clock 
A  bony  jester,  white  clad,  left  the  suite 
Of  the  mighty  cardinal  and  slipped  the  lock 
Behind  him  cautiously.     As  he  might  meet 
The  warders,  he  was  masked.    Some  vision  sweet 
Made  him  a  grinning  ghost.     His  soft  footfalls 
Were  stealthy  and  unheard  as  his  thin  feet 
Went  shuffling  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  halls, 
And  his  gaunt  spindle  shadow  danced  upon  the 
walls. 


84          The  Cardinal  Dances 

Before  the  perfumed  doorway  to  his  queen," 
He  paused  and  tentatively  bent  a  knee, 
Looked  back,   askance,  to  know  if  he'd  been 

seen, 

Tried  his  old  joints  as  if  he  meant  to  be 
Impetuous  and  airy.     She  should  see 
His  capering  would  not  lack  fire.     The  gloom 
Behind  him  shadowed  his  thin-jowled  glee. 
The  clock  began  the  stroke  of  ten  to  boom ; 
He  tapped.     The   door   swung  inward  on    an 

empty  room. 

He  bowed  and  there  was  laughter,  a  light  sound 

From  some  sweet  throat  behind  the  arras  hid. 

Its  echoes  faintly  chiming  sped  around 

The  windy  curtains.     Scented  tapers  did 

A  flickering  obeisance,  as  if  bid 

To  laugh  because  a  queen  could  laugh.     The 

space 

Of  half  a  heart-beat  waited  he,  then  slid 
Like  a  contorted  wraith  to  find  the  place 
Whence  came  the  queen's  bright  greeting,  cried 

he'd  see  her  face. 

"Hold  back,  Pierrot.     Rein  thy  eager  heart. 
"Before  the  royal  innocence  be  killed 
"Pierrot  must  cavort  and  play  his  part. 
"Or  else — a  bargain  may  not  be  fulfilled. 
Dance   now,    lord   cardinal."     Her   voice   was 
stilled 


The  Cardinal  Dances  85 

And  he  shook  in  an  ague  of  delight 
For  all  the  shadows  of  the  room  were  thrilled 
With  the  seduction  of  a  lover's  night. 
His  queen  was  fairer  even — hidden  from  his 
sight. 

In  a  servile  bow  his  stern  old  back  was  bent — 
Such  a  salute  as  he  would  give  no  king. 
There  came  the  music  of  some  instrument, 
A  thin  picked  tune  which  tinkled  on  a  string. 
And  he  began  his  angled  limbs  to  fling 
About  him  in  a  grotesque  mirthfulness. 
He  made  a  trial,  rashly  inspired,  to  sing. 
A  crooked  whiteness  in  a  jester's  dress, 
His  dancing  seemed  the  throes  of  some  uncouth 
distress. 

He  tried  to  whirl  upon  his  wavering  toes. 
His  arms  went  round  like  an  unsteady  wheel, 
White-spoked  and  spinning  on  its  hub.    He  rose 
In  spirals  like  a  dervish,  but  one  heel 
Caught  and  he  stumbled.     He  began  to  reel 
But  saved  him  from  disaster  by  a  fall 
On  his  old  knees;  pretended  then  to  kneel 
And  on  his  sovereign  lady  wildly  call 
To  come  if  she  could  ever  pity  him  at  all. 

He  heard  no  answer  but  the  curtain's  sigh. 
Her  silence  urged  his  fever  like  a  lash. 
He  rose  again  and  cast  a  desperate  eye 
At  the  deluding  arras.     In  one  dash 


86  The  Cardinal  Dances 

Across  the  room  he  made  a  gesture  rash 
And  struck  a  vase,  one  of  the  royal  toys, 
Knocking  it  from  its  table  with  a  crash. 
He  stopped  and  strove  to  gain  his  happy  poise, 
Most  disconcerted  by  that  sharp  unhappy  noise. 

One  would  have  thought  it  was  not  love  but  rage 
Which  gave  his  sallow  cheek  a  flaming  hue. 
He  sneered  as  if  the  vase  had  been  a  gage 
From  some  unworthy  foe.     The  fragments  flew 
Across  the  floor  as  he  spurned  them  with  his 

shoe. 

The  giddy  tune  began  again;  he  stood 
Sullen  a  moment,  then  more  crafty  grew, 
Willing  to  dance  on  gaily  if  he  could. 
His  aching  legs  were  slow  and  stiff  as  ancient 

wood. 


He  made  a  few  more  awkward  steps.     His  ear 
Was  straining  to  discover  where  she  lay. 
He  circled  and  approached  and  felt  her  near. 
The  hand  which  picked  his  tune  out  ceased  to 

play. 

"I  have  been  mad.     We  love  ndw  as  we  may," 
He  said  and  put  his  lean  hand  on  his  side, 
Was  fit  to  sob  or  curse  his  pride  away. 
He  knew  he  was  abased,  but  took  one  stride 
And  with  a  gasp  of  passion  tore  the  curtains 

wide. 


The  Cardinal  Dances  87 

There  was  a  laughing  roar,  hysterical, 

Long  pent,  from  many  throats.     It  smote  his 

face 

With  the  scorn  of  Austrian  courtiers,  for  all 
The   queen's   own   countrymen   stood   in   that 

place. 

And  they  upon  his  foolish  lack  of  grace 
Had  grinned  and  winked,  behind  the  arras  nook, 
Spied  on  his  fell  lust,  traitorous  and  base. 
But  the  queen  with  her  light  laughing  no  more 

shook. 
She  paused  and  shrank  and  blanched  in  the  horror 

of  his  look. 


They  were  all  reckless  Austrians,  no  French, 
Knowing  the  eager  fury  of  his  hate, 
Would  ever  mock  the  cardinal  nor  entrench 
Upon  his  secret  passions.     And  their  fate 
Lay  now  before  them,  pitiless  and  straight. 
So  shuddering  they  slunk  away;  the  while 
Queen  Anne  tried  to  assume  her  regal  state, 
But  flushed  and  trembled  in  a  peasant  style, 
And  the  cardinal  looked  on  her  with  a  worm 
wood  smile. 


Once  more  the  jester  bowed,  and  left  the  room. 
And  a  warder,  come  on  suddenly,  screaming  fled, 
Before  the  stalking  ghastly  face  of  doom 
Pierrot  wore  to  sanctuary.     Dread 


88          The  Cardinal  Dances 

Lay  on  the  stricken  queen.     His  love  was  dead, 
Was  shame  and  ashes  to  him,  and  his  power 
Began  that  night  in  plots  upon  her  head 
To  bring  unnamed  disasters  and  the  glower 
Of  his  red  evil  spite  was  on  her  from  that  hour. 

King  Louis'  lush  affections  never  turned 
To  Anne's  surpassing  loveliness,  and  nights 
Of  weeping  took  her  bloom,  and  her  eyes  burned 
Red  and  affrighted,  gazing  on  grim  sights. 
Her  thinking  withered  up  her  youth  as  blights 
A  febrile  summer  wind  upon  the  field. 
The  king  bestowed  on  many  maids  the  rites 
Of  love  which  to  his  spouse  he'd  never  yield. 
Anne  was  afraid.     Her  secret  never  was  revealed. 

She  never  dared  defy  her  fear  and  tell 
Whence  rumours  of  wild  faithless  revels  came. 
The  cardinal's  cold  hate  was  like  a  spell 
And  she  stood  silent  under  lies  and  shame. 
All  enterprise  was  balked  that  bore  her  name, 
For  Louis  gulped  the  lies  and  gave  an  ear 
To  all  traducers,  cast  on  her  the  blame 
For  his  own  sins.     And  the  cardinal  was  near 
To  stir  king's  lechery  and  mock  the  queen's  pale 
fear. 

He    watched    her    heart-beats.    When    some 

recompense, 

Some  comfort  for  her  sorrowing  hovered  by, 
And  she  reached  piteous  hands,  he  scattered  hence 


The  Cardinal  Dances  89 

The  beckoning  occasion.     His  grey  eye 
Stalked   her   desires;   he   struck   and   watched 

them  die. 

Her  loneliness  was  like  a  desert ;  friends 
Held  to  her  bravely  but  a  curse  hung  nigh 
To  tear  them  off.     She  sought  to  make  amends 
For  scorn,  but  all  her  kind  deeds  came  to  bitter 

ends. 

So   Anne   the   queen   played   harlequin.     Dull 

years 

Went  by  in  waiting  on  the  cardinal's  word. 
Red  hats  ran  in  her  nightmares  and  with  tears 
She  stormed  his  heart,  which  never  once  was 

stirred 

With  any  weakening  pity.     Long  deferred, 
Choked  with  despair  her  hopes  died,  one  by  one. 
Her  queenly  name  was  jested  with  and  slurred. 
Thus  in  one  penance  for  the  insult  done 
Her  days  in  endless,  futile  weariness  were  spun. 


THE  WRECKER 

THE  sun  rose  slow  and  could  not  shake 
A  dull  thick  mist  that  veiled  the  lake 
Nor  warm  the  pale  and  chilling  day; 
For  all  night  long  the  waves  had  clomb 
Up  the  shoreways,  spitting  foam; 
And  on  each  wave  the  wind's  white  hand 
Had  lashed  the  water-beast  to  land. 
Long  thunders  dinned  and  the  Titan's  spark 
Split  blinding  caverns  in  the  dark. 
But  now  repentant  for  the  night 
Water  and  sky  in  one  grey  light 
Shivered  in  dawn  breath,  misty  cold. 
The  wave-lapped  sands  were  wan  and  old. 
At  morn  Raoul,  the  habitant, 
Came  out  to  loose  his  boat 
And  felt  the  dawn's  reluctant  breath 
As  a  shudder  in  his  throat. 
Never  before  had  harsh  wind  stirred 
His  sleep.     Their  rage  went  by  unheard. 
His  boat  was  chained  above  the  reach 
Of  clutching  flow  along  the  beach 
And  never  rain  sheets,  lashing  fierce 
Against  his  cabin's  side,  could  pierce 
The  chink-filled  logs.     So  he  had  slept 
With  wife  and  son  until  dawn  crept 
90 


The  Wrecker  91 

Behind  the  mist  and  slowly  paled 

To  find  the  earth  so  coldly  veiled. 

But,  strangely,  while  this  storm  had  torn 

The  bosomed  lake,  his  sleep  had  borne 

Dark  terrors  and  he  faced  the  air, 

The  spray-fresh  air,  as  if  to  find 

Some  riddle-reading  clearness  there 

And  shake  the  phantoms  from  his  mind. 

Within  the  hut,  his  wife,  Collette, 

Began  with  breakfast  fires  to  fret. 

She  clattered  bowls  and  coughed  in  smoke 

Till  little  Rene*,  too,  awoke 

And  came  half -clad  to  see  the  sun; 

His  day  with  wonder  was  begun. 

"Oh,  Mother,  did  you  hear  the  wind?" 

He  shouted.     "Did  you  see 

"The  big  clouds  in  the  thunder-light 

"Come  swooping  after  me? 

"I  hid  my  face,  and  held  my  breath 

"When  thunder-guns  were  fired. 

"This  morning  I  am  brave  again. 

"See  how  the  lake  seems  tired." 

"No,  no,  my  child,"  said  vain  Collette, 

"The  waves  are  feeble  here. 

"When  I  was  young  in  Brittany 

"We  waked  to  silent  fear 

"When  scattered  wrecks  rolled  up  the  sands 

"In  the  springtime  of  the  year. 

"Scattered  wrecks  rolled  up  the  sands — 

"My  little  sisters  went 


92  The  Wrecker 

"Out  upon  those  treasure  fields 

"With  sodden  glory  sprent. 

"Treasures  fell  of  silken  robes 

"And  garments,  smooth  and  fine, 

"Jewels  set  in  braces  bright, 

"And  casks  of  yellow  wine. 

"No  great  ships  go  by  this  place, 

"Only  winds  go  by." 

She  sighed  and  watched  the  wide  grey  lake 

With  an  old  dream  in  her  eye. 

"But  then  you  saved  the  people,  too. 

"Did  they  give  all  their  gold  to  you 

"Because  you  saved  them?" 

"No,  Rend, 

"The  poor  folk  always  drowned. 
"They  lay  among  their  splintered  boats 
"Tide-scattered  on  the  ground. 
"And  sometimes  when  the  fearful  night 
"Had  held  us  locked  indoors  for  fright, 
"At  morn  we  found  their  corpses  wet 
"With  eyeballs  rolled  in  terror  yet. 
"We  wept  to  think  that  shrieking  wild 
"Which  we  had  called  the  storm 
"Had  been  the  anguish  of  a  child 
"While  we  were  safe  and  warm." 
And  Rend  smiled — "But  there  was  gold — " 
"Aye,  there  was  gold — and  wine." 
His  mother  heaped  up  memories 
To  see  his  wide  eyes  shine. 
The  dream  was  old  ere  she  was  born 


The  Wrecker  93 

And  lived  in  all  her  line. 

But  as  his  mother  told  the  tale 

With  childish  conning  o'er, 

As  her  own  sire  had  told  to  her, 

And  his  own  sire  before, 

The  boy  looked  out,  his  eyes  at  strain, 

As  if  he  saw  a  wreck-strewn  main 

And  knew  his  treasures  by  their  gleam 

Beside  the  dipping  spar  and  beam. 

Athwart  the  shingle  as  he  gazed 

He  saw  his  father's  form  upraised 

And  turning  toward  the  door.     The  boy 

Shrilled  to  Collette  excited  joy 

And  felt  a  thrill  in  his  young  soul. 

His  father  bore  a  silken  roll. 

He  carried  it  across  his  breast, 

But  the  misted  light  was  dim, 

And  the  boy  saw  only  muddy  silks 

That  trailed  on  after  him. 

"There's  treasure — treasure  from  the  lake." 

He  ran,  all  eagerness,  to  take 

His  first  touch  of  the  dripping  prize — 

He  did  not  see  his  father's  eyes. 

But  as  Collette  flung  wide  the  door 

She  shuddered  for  the  wind  before 

Raoul,  who  entered,  filled  the  room 

With  the  clinging  damp  chill  of  a  tomb. 

Raoul  stooped  to  his  straight  hewn  chair 

And  sighed,  but  nothing  said. 

His  hands  were  twined  with  dripping  hair, 


94  The  Wrecker 

He  bore  a  woman — dead. 

Slow  drops  slid  from  her  drowned  black  hair 

To  the  floor  in  a  reptile  pool 

That  writhed  and  ran  on  the  ragged  boards. 

"The  lake  sends  gifts,"  said  Raoul. 

His  wife  cried,  "Drowned?"  with  a  sign  of  fear. 

"There  are  no  ships — how  came  she  here?" 

And  as  his  father  pulled  a  fold 

Of  silk  across  the  eyes  to  hold 

The  last  dark  secret  from  their  gaze, 

And  Collette  stood  in  awed  amaze, 

The  boy  spoke  out  with  impious  lips, 

"Where  is  the  treasure  from  the  ships? 

"There  were  great  ships  that  broke  last  night; 

"Where  are  the  jewels  in  braces  bright? 

' '  Where  are  the  casks  ?    Where  are  the —  ? ' ' 

"Hush!" 

His  mother  clipped  his  speech. 
The  boy  crept  stealthy,  as  they  stood, 
And  vanished  down  the  beach. 
Collette  broke  stillness  with  a  laugh, 
"Come,  eat.     Here's  breakfast  set. 
"I  can't  wait  all  the  day  for  you 
"Because  her  eyes  are  wet." 
But  Raoul  held  his  peace,  nor  spoke, 
And  watched  the  dripping  silken  cloak, 
And  saw  the  pitiful  smooth  line 
Of  limbs  beneath  the  silk  entwine, 
Wondering,  patient  but  doubt-tossed, 
From  what  far  bourne  this  life  was  lost. 


The  Wrecker  95 

He  knew  too  well  there  were  no  ships; 

He  turned  to  speak  once  but  his  lips 

Were  too  aghast  to  breathe  a  sound 

Before  the  presence  of  this  veiled 

And  silent  being  who  was  drowned 

In  a  lake  where  no  ships  sailed. 

And  Collette  laughed  again,  her  fear 

Had  left  her  giddy.     "  Come,  my  dear, 

"What  care  you  for  women  dead? 

"Come  to  your  morning's  food, "  she  said. 

Her  laugh  was  mirthless  and  her  face 

Was  empty  as  a  desert  place. 

Raoul  turned  toward  her  his  gaunt  head 

And  answered  her,  "Vex  not  the  dead." 

His  lips  were  stiffened  then  with  grief 

As  if  the  lake  had  been  the  thief 

Of  one  he  treasured.     "Wife, "  he  said, 

"Last  night  when  rain  was  scourging  earth 

"And  we  were  dreaming  in  our  bed, 

"There  were  long  screams  of  death  and  birth. 

"I  heard  them  and  I  tried  to  wake, 

"I  prayed  them  cease  for  Jesus'  sake, 

"I  groped  to  find  you,  but  I  dreamed 

"And  your  place  cold  and  empty  seemed. 

"Then  when  the  dawn  stir  came  to  me 

"I  saw  upon  your  eyes 

"The  shadow  of  some  fearful  loss. 

"I  thought  those  hideous  cries 

"Had  been  the  death  pang  of  your  soul; 

"I  did  not  hope  to  find  you  whole. 


96  The  Wrecker 

"Even  now  I—"  Collette's  fear 

Came  back  upon  her  in  his  stare 

And  she  felt  the  horror  sweat 

Stirring  underneath  her  hair. 

"Raoul,  my  husband,  turn  your  eyes 

"From  off  that  cursed  body.     See — 

"I  am  not  changed  from  what  I  was. 

"The  night  brought  no  such  dreams  to  me. 

"Give  over  sick  thoughts."     But  Raoul 

Held  his  eyes  still  upon  the  pool, 

Distraught  and  helpless  to  declare 

The  meaning  of  his  strange  despair. 

He  too  had  thoughts  of  Brittany 

And  the  storms  of  that  remembered  sea; 

The  winds  and  wreckage  and  the  heave 

Of  fathom-stirring  waves  that  leave 

A  thin  caress  along  the  sand 

Cruel  as  a  treacherous  hand; 

Where  gaunt  cliffs,  endlessly  attacked 

By  the  long  coil  and  splash  impact, 

Imperishably  stand;  where  men 

Build  up  each  shattered  hope  again 

From  endless  devastation,  hold 

To  ancient  dreams  of  too  much  gold 

And  seek  among  their  iron  days 

Brief  bitter  gleams  of  princelier  ways. 

From  there  Raoul  had  sundered  faith 

And  gone,  unhindered,  to  find  breath 

In  wildernesses,  and  Collette 

Had  followed  querulous,  but  met 


The  Wrecker  97 

The  wave  and  wilderness  unhurt 

With  wifely  resolution  girt. 

Deep  in  the  stillness  of  the  wood 

And  in  the  wideness  of  the  lake 

Raoul  had  found  the  reach  and  space 

He  had  sought  for  his  soul's  sake. 

He  homed  him  by  an  inland  sea 

With  a  fruitful  wooded  shore 

Where  man  had  never  ploughed  before. 

But  as  poison  lurks  concealed 

After  wounds  are  over-healed, 

After  leeches  draw  and  go, 

And  no  red  scars  the  blemish  show, 

When  a  swift  convulsive  stab 

Betrays  corruption  working  deep; 

So  old  avarice  may  keep 

Even  after  many  days, 

Though  over-glossed,  its  venomous  ways. 

Raoul  knew  not  what  nameless  deed 

The  night  had  done,  nor  what  vile  seed 

Long  planted  in  his  destiny 

Had  of  a  sudden  dared  to  be; 

But  hideous  nightmares  wracked  his  brain. 

He  thought  that  in  the  whirl  of  rain 

The  soul  that  he  had  brought  to  life 

Within  the  child  mind  of  his  wife 

Had  slipped  beyond  his  grasp,  had  drowned, 

With  dripping  silk  was  lying  wound. 

"Perhaps  there  are  ships  then,"  a  light 

Gleamed  in  Collette's  eye,  fever  bright. 

7 


98  The  Wrecker 

A  sudden  sweeping  soul-sprung  thought 
Made  all  her  awe-struck  silence  nought. 
"Perhaps  there  are  ships  then,  and  she 
"Is  one  of  many  who  may  be 
"Washing  ghastly  on  our  shore. 
"Though  they  have  never  sailed  before 
"There  may  be  tall  ships  sailing  now, 
"And  tempest-struck,  one  drove  her  prow 
"Shuddering,  helpless  into  doom — " 
She  paused,  her  mind  outran  her  speech. 
But  Raoul  gazed  across  the  room 
With  eyes,  like  fingers,  set  to  reach 
And  all  the  formless  wishes  find 
That  stirred  a  hot  mist  in  her  mind. 
So  ere  she  knew  her  hopefulness 
He  knew.     It  was  not  vague  distress 
In  shattered  galleons  she  saw, 
But  sodden  gain;  no  pious  awe 
For  storming  fury;  no  regret 
For  piteous  faces  stark  and  wet, 
But  finery  with  anguish  wreathed 
And  wealth  by  slimy  death  bequeathed. 
Collette  was  dizzy  with  desire, 
Forgotten  now  was  breakfast  fire, 
Forgotten  was  her  silent  guest, 
Raoul's  deep  question,  half  expressed, 
She  stepped  once  toward  the  sandy  shore. 
Her  husband  stood  up  in  the  door. 
"There  are  no  ships,"  he  whispered,  rent 
With  passioned  questioning  still  pent 


The  Wrecker  99 

Behind  the  barrier  of  his  words. 

"The  wide  grey  lake  is  bare 

"And  sleeps,  unrippled  by  a  keel. 

"There  are  no  ships  out  there, 

"No  sailing  ships."     From  Collette's  heart 

She  felt  an  angry  torrent  start 

And  hate-sped  words  of  old  complaint 

Now  crowding  broke  their  long  restraint. 

"Why  must  we  live  outside  of  life? 

' '  Why  must  we  see  but  lake  and  sky  ? 

"I'd  rather  never  have  been  wife 

"  If  in  this  wilderness  I  die. 

"My  mother  and  my  sisters  sit 

"Beside  the  shore  in  Brittany, 

"And  wonder  when  the  storms  drive  on 

"What  far  lone  wood  is  housing  me. 

"They  wonder  why  you  never  come 

"Heavy  with  riches  to  your  home. 

"They  think  we  seek  in  this  harsh  land 

"Some  hoard  of  comfort,  but  your  hand 

' '  Is  never  turned  to  any  gain 

"And  all  our  wandering  has  been  vain." 

Raoul  was  silent.     "Speak,"  she  cried, 

' '  We  have  found  labour — what  beside  ? 

"My  hands  break  with  the  tasks  I  do 

"To  make  hell  habitable  for  you." 

Raoul  knew  pity.     "I  have  worked 

"To  ease  the  heavy  toil  that  irked 

"Your  woman's  strength.     I  did  not  see 

"How  weary  you  were,  spite  of  me. 


ioo  The  Wrecker 

"  And  I  have  loved  you."     He  had  spoken 

As  if  his  hopes  had  now  been  broken. 

Collette  mistook  his  final  tone, 

Thought  his  decision  was  her  own, 

And  looked  at  him  in  still  surprise, 

A  wan  hope  struggling  in  her  eyes. 

"We  will  go  back— to  Brittany? 

"Where  my  poor  mother  weeps  for  me, 

"Where  my  beloved  big  seas  clamour, 

"And  all  my  childhood's  love  puts  glamour 

"Over  granite,  sand,  and  coast?" 

But  she  saw  his  eyes  turn  cold 

And  she  knew  her  plea  was  lost. 

"Then  we  linger  here  till  old, 

"Feeble,  broken,  in  despair, 

"We  creep  back  to  pity  there!" 

Raoul  spoke  gently,  "We  have  found 

"  Peace  and  freedom  here.     Around 

"The  fruited  lake  shore  lives  there  none 

"Who  has  not  left  as  we  have  done 

"All  desire  of  gain  behind, 

"Content  with  space  for  soul  and  mind." 

Collette  impatiently  replied 

And  sneered,  "Aye — space,  and  what  beside?" 

Raoul  turned  to  the  sodden  roll 

And  thought  again  of  that  calm  soul 

He'd  hoped  to  wake  in  Collette' s  breast 

While  she  was  sharing  his  long  quest. 

All  trace  of  understanding  gone, 

Collette  raged  like  a  pettish  child 


The  Wrecker 


And  all  his  stern  desires  reviled 

In  fury.     Raoul  was  alone. 

Then  came  Rene*,  with  noisy  speed, 

Home  to  his  mother  in  his  need 

Of  comfort  for  his  broken  hope  — 

"I  searched  the  long  beach  and  the  slope, 

"I  walked  as  far  as  I  could  go 

"And  still  see  home.     There  was  no  gold, 

"There  was  no  treasure.     Mother  told 

"Me  how  the  wrecks  lay  in  a  row 

"With  all  their  jewels  and  treasures  thrown 

"Where  I  could  get  them  for  my  own." 

Then  Raoul  seized  his  son  and  turned 

The  boy's  face  to  his  own  and  burned 

A  long,  long  question  into  eyes 

Where  he  saw  tears  of  anger  rise, 

But  through  the  mist  of  childish  tears 

Shone  deadly  answer  to  the  fears 

Of  the  dark  father.     There  was  nought 

Of  Raoul's  soul  in  this  boy's  soul. 

All  his  hue  of  life  had  caught 

From  his  fond  mother  old-world  taint. 

Raoul  spoke  out  with  edged  constraint 

To  his  harsh  wife,  "I  thought  our  child, 

"Nurtured,  rooted  in  the  wild, 

"Would  be  unsmirched  and  fancy  whole 

"From  any  poison  of  desire. 

"The  fevered  stories  that  you  told 

"To  your  Rene*  were  falsehoods  old 

"Learned  in  Brittany  from  your  sire. 


The  Wrecker 


"There  are  no  ships.     There  never  were 

"On  these  clean  shores,  nor  over  there  — 

"No  treasure  ships.     The  foolish  myth 

"You've  nursed  and  filled  his  young  mind  with 

"Was  festering  in  your  father's  thought. 

"It  stains  my  son;  and  you  have  wrought 

"Unending  restless  misery 

"In  him,  for  greed  has  even  now 

"Set  her  dull  mark  upon  his  brow 

"And  her  hot  groveller  must  he  be." 

Collette  raged  on  and  would  not  hark, 

And  Raoul's  face  set  grim  and  stark 

And  stony.     Over  all  the  three 

There  fell  a  silence.     Fury  spent, 

Collette  sank  down  and  Rend  went 

To  hide  his  hot  face  in  her  skirt, 

To  hide  his  terror  and  his  hurt. 

The  woman,  wearied  now  but  still 

Uneased  and  pettish,  spoke  in  shrill 

Tired  fretfulness,  "  Take  from  my  sight 

"That  stranger's  dripping  body.     Free 

"Your  house  of  this  dissension.     Blight 

"And  fierce  suspicions  did  not  lurk 

"Within  your  door  before  the  murk 

"Of  death  and  drowning  troubled  you, 

"When  you  found  this  corpse.     Go  strew 

"The  pine  boughs  over  her  and  deep 

"Dig  her  a  grave  and  let  her  sleep." 

Raoul  took  kindly  from  the  floor 

The  silken  sodden  one. 


The  Wrecker  103 

He  set  his  flint  face  toward  the  shore 

But  for  reply  gave  none. 

And  still  Collette  saw  puzzled  pain 

Burn  heavy  in  his  eyes,  but  vain 

Repentant  pity.     He  passed  on 

And  as  she  called  him  he  was  gone. 

She  saw  him  near  the  beach  as  if 

To  take  his  burden  in  the  skiff 

To  some  far  burial.     But  he  passed 

The  long  boat's  mooring  and  the  last 

Extending  point  of  land.     Collette 

Saw  that  he  splashed  unheeding  yet 

Could  not  believe.     Then  sudden  dread 

Came  down  upon  her  and  she  sped 

Screaming  after  and  Rend 

Came  stumbling.     Out  upon  the  grey 

Face  of  the  lake  they  saw  Raoul 

Swim  on  unheeding  and  the  cool 

Wind  blew  their  shouts  back  in  their  faces 

And  echoes  came  from  wooded  spaces. 

He  never  turned.     Collette  took  strength 

From  terror  and  the  long  boat's  length 

Went  grating  over  sand.     The  sail 

Went  rattling  out  and  like  a  pale 

Bird,  stiff  with  cold,  the  boat  swung  round. 

Wind-shaken,  standing  in  the  stern 

Collette,  with  eyes  set  to  discern 

The  speck  her  husband  had  become, 

Held  hard  the  rudder  and  Rend 

Knelt  in  the  bow  beneath  the  spray 


104  The  Wrecker 

Crouching,  staring,  scared,  and  dumb. 
Collette  had  ceased  to  call.     The  sound 
Of  parted  waters  rippling  by 
Filled  up  the  silence. 

One  tense  cry 

Came  from  the  woman,  then  she  sank 
Inert  beside  her  rudder.     Blank 
And  empty  was  the  water's  face. 
The  speck  was  gone.     And  Rene*  shrank 
Whimpering  in  his  lookout  place. 
The  sail  flapped  and  the  boat  swung.     Back 
It  pointed  to  the  shore.     A  track 
Of  sunlight  sifted  through  the  clouds; 
The  wind  stirred  restless  in  the  shrouds. 
The  sun  broke  through  and  up  the  lake 
The  dull  grey  mist  was  thinned; 
But  Raoul's  hut,  with  breakfast  set, 
Was  tenanted  by  wind. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  D 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


JAN  23  1934 

JAN  241934 

U£L'  i)  0   ;33Q 

tFLUHITT    DEC  2  31$ 

90 

REC'D  JW02-91 

LD  21-100m-7,'33 

•:' 


YB  73290 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


